


Coffee Shop

by ponticle



Series: Coffee Shop Universe [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assumptions, Boys Kissing, Coffee Shops, Dragon Age - Freeform, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Gay Characters, Gyms, Happy Ending, Heartbreak, Hookups, Just look, LGBT, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Medical School, Miscommunication, Modern AU, POV Anders (Dragon Age), POV First Person, Random Sex, Romance, Sexting, Texting, Workout, bi characters, dragon age modern au, i'm not kidding it's really quite happy, just a little, kettlebell, nervous anders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-09-03 03:37:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8694850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: Anders has been single for ages, but that might all change when he finally talks to a stranger in his usual coffee shop. Once things get going, he'll rely on the help of his friends Isabela, Fenris, Merrill, and Hawke and their permanent group text for help._Here's an organizational helper:Chapter 1Christmas ChallengeChapter 2Winter ChallengeChapter 3"5 Months Apart" 10-Day ChallengeChapter 4"Seminar" 9-Day ChallengeChapter 512 Hours to Solve ThisChapter 611 WeeksChapter 7Doctors Without Borders Related works:"Trust Me""Wedding Bells"





	1. Part 1 - Meeting

* * *

 

I’m a caffeine addict. I’m not even _alive_ before my grande americano in the morning. Each day, I go to the same coffee shop. It’s right around the corner from the gym I work at. I’m a personal trainer. Because of that, I always notice people’s posture. There’s this guy that comes in—I started noticing him a few weeks ago. He’s about six feet tall, I think. We’d look eye-to-eye, I’m sure. He’s super fit. Reddish hair, tanned skin, thick-framed glasses. He has the _nicest_ smile. Today, he’s in line behind me. This is my _chance_.

* * *

 

“Really busy in here today, huh?” I smile at him.

He looks confused for a second, as if I’m talking to _someone else_ , but quickly regains his composure. “Yeah… I might have to find a new place…” he mumbles.

 _No_ , that’s the opposite of what I want. “Well, I think the wait is worth it—best coffee in town, don’t you think?” _Nice save_.

He smiles gently. I notice that the skin around his eyes crinkles slightly when he grins. It’s endearing.

“I’m Anders, by the way,” I extend my hand and he takes it.

“Alistair,” he nods.

He’s wearing very soft-looking business-casual clothes today: khakis with a bit of stretch in all the right places, a thin-woven sweater. A pen is protruding from his pocket.

“So what do you do, Alistair?” I ask suddenly.

He raises an eyebrow at me, but smiles anyway. “I’m an orthopedist.”

“Oh,” I smile. He’s a _doctor_ —I’m suddenly nervous. “So… _Dr._ Alistair—where is your practice?”

“Just Alistair is fine… _Al,_ if you prefer” he smiles—bigger this time. “I don’t actually see patients anymore—I’m the attending physician for a group of residents at the university.”

 _Great_. He’s not just a doctor, he’s a very _accomplished_ doctor, shaping the minds of a new generation of musculoskeletal experts. Now I’m really intimidated.

“What do _you_ do?” he asks. His head is tipped to the side slightly. I think he’s really listening.

“I’m a personal trainer,” I stammer, “at the gym around the corner.”

“That’s great,” he smiles. I notice that he looks me up and down. I try to stand up straighter. As soon as anyone knows my profession, they expect my body to be _perfect_.

“Do you have a card?” he asks.

I blink. “What?”

“...a _business_ card?” he raises an eyebrow. “In case I know of anyone who needs a trainer?”

“Oh,” I laugh nervously, “I do…” I go fishing into my back pocket and manage to find my wallet. I keep a stash of cards in there just-in-case. “Here you go,” I hand one over. At the moment we make the transfer, our hands touch. I look up at him cautiously.

He smiles again, “Thanks, Anders.”

I stand there smiling like an idiot until he clears his throat and looks at the barista pointedly. It’s my turn.

“Oh,” I laugh, “thanks. Can I have a grande americano, please? Black.”

She smiles and nods, “coming right up, Anders.” Everyone in here knows me.

I slink down to the end of the counter to wait for my coffee and run over the whole conversation in my head a few times. I wish I asked for _his_ card—just in case I ever get brave enough to contact him… or in case I hurt my spine? I know he doesn’t practice, but maybe one of his residents… Someone taps my shoulder suddenly.

“Isn’t this  yours?” Alistair asks. He’s holding my cup and smiling at me.

“Oh,” I laugh again, “thank you…”

“You looked lost in thought,” he muses.

“Yeah… lots of clients today…” I mumble. It isn’t _true_ —Tuesdays are my least busy day.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it, then,” he says, turning to leave.

“Thanks,” I mumble. I wish I was braver—I’d stop him: ask for his number. Ask if he wants to sit with me while I wait. But I don’t—I let him walk away.

  

* * *

 

Two weeks later, I haven’t seen him once. I’ve been kicking myself daily. Mostly because I probably misread the situation—he obviously isn’t going to call me if he hasn’t already. Maybe he really _did_ want my card as a professional reference.

I order my coffee in a haze. It’s pouring outside, which only adds to my pervasive misery of missed opportunities. It’s a little silly to be _this_ broken up about a guy I met for one second… but something about him seemed special. And although it turned out not to be true, I’d given him an entire backstory in my head during the few weeks I watched him— _like a stalker_. I have half a mind to google him as I sit with my computer. I don’t know his last name, but I know his profession and there can’t be _that_ many doctors named Alistair in the area. My fingers twitch over the keys as I decide.

“Alistair orthopedics Boston” I type. The first few links are a dead end, but the fourth one on the page says, “Faculty Profile.” _Gotcha_.

“Dr. Theirin graduated summa cum laude…”

_Scroll._

“Dr. Theirin completed an extensive literature review…”

Scroll.

“Dr. Theirin is the author of…”

_Come on, get to his family—does he have kids? A wife? A husband?_

There’s nothing about his personal life—even in the bowels of the internet. I’ve drank all my coffee already. I guess stalking makes me thirsty. I look up, my empty cup in hand to get another one when I see him—he’s just walked in. He’s shaking an umbrella over the floor mat. I’m suddenly not sure how to _be_. I at least have the wherewithal to close my internet browser.

He doesn’t seem to see me. I don’t want to seem overeager, so I look back down at my laptop and pretend to be deep in thought.

A minute later, I feel a presence over my shoulder. “Can I sit here?” asks Alistair.

“Oh, hi,” I say, a bit too loud, “I didn’t see you.” _Why am I lying?_

“It’s really busy in here this morning and I didn’t want to take up another table by myself,” says Alistair.

“That’s thoughtful of you,” I chirp.

“I try.” He smirks.

“So, where have you been for the last couple weeks?” I ask. I’m not sure _why_ —I basically just admitted to _looking for him_ for the last two weeks.

He looks at me appraisingly, “The semester just changed over,” he explains, “I got a new crop of interns and they needed me at all hours.”

“Oh,” I say lamely. He’s busy and important and what am _I_ doing with my life?

“That’s why I didn’t call, actually,” he says suddenly.

“What?” I must not have heard him right.

“I meant to _call_ ,” he repeats, leaning into the table between us. “To come in and see you…”

My face falls. I can feel it happening. He means _professionally_ —in the gym.

“I googled you,” he adds, “You’re a kettlebell instructor.”

“Yeah… I have that certification,” I say. “I also do some olympic lifting and the occasional sandbag workout…” I brush a hand through my hair. I give this summary dozens of times each week. “It really depends on what the client’s goals are and what they’re starting from.” I find my eyes passing over his shoulders and chest unintentionally. “Clearly, you’ve got a lot of muscle to start with—where do you train now?”

He straightens. He looks a little _scandalized_ —like I asked him to take his shirt off in the middle of the coffee shop. “I have a tiny little setup in my basement,” he answers. “I used to play tennis in college, but I hurt my shoulder.”

“Well, if you want to come in, just call the front desk and they’ll set you up for an assessment,” I say.

He nods and smiles. “I’ll do that.” He looks down at his watch.

“Do you have to get going?” I ask. _Please say ‘no.’_

“Not yet…” he smiles again. He hasn’t stopped smiling since he walked over. “I was actually thinking that I need more caffeine. Can I get you another drink?” he asks.

I nod. “Yes, actually. It’s a—”

He interrupts me, “Grande Americano—black,” he smiles. “I remember.”

I can feel the blush crawling across my cheeks and down my neck.

“I’ll be right back,” he walks over to the line, which is longer now that it was an hour ago.

In truth, I probably shouldn’t be drinking more coffee—I’m shaking already. But he offered—it would be rude to refuse.

“Here you go,” he says a minute later.

The cup is ridiculously hot. It burns my hand when I go to grasp it. I pull my fingertips back toward my mouth.

“Sorry—I try not to use those extra cardboard rings,” he shrugs at me apologetically. “I think the environment would have understood just this once.”

I laugh, “it’s okay—nothing a little aloe won’t fix.”

“So where do you live?” he asks me.

“About two blocks from here—do you know the old paper factory?”

He nods.

“They turned it into lofts a couple years ago,” I explain. “I live on the third floor.”

He mouth drops open.

“What?” I might be blushing again.

“I live there too,” he reveals.

I hope I don’t look as elated as I feel.

“I’m unit 506,” he smirks, “which one are you?”

“310,” I answer. “I can’t believe I’ve never seen you in the elevator,” I muse. “Or… in the common room or something…”

“I don’t have much time to hang around,” he says. “...and I always take the stairs.”

I’m sort of impressed by that. Our building has 17-foot ceilings. It’s 24 steps between each floor. Even if he only leaves his house once per day that's 120 stairs each way. I also didn't fail to notice that he said ‘I’. I hope that means he doesn't live with a partner.

“Well,” I smile, “the next time I need sugar, I'm going to harass you.”

He side-eyes me, “I don't espouse eating sugar; do you?”

I am suddenly embarrassed. _Of course he doesn't._ “Just a figure of speech.”

He laughs, “I know. I'm being sarcastic. _Do_ stop by sometime, though,” he says more seriously. “I don't know too many people in the building.”

“I definitely will,” I say. _It's a date_.

 

* * *

 

My shoes scuff against the carpet when I get out of the elevator on the fifth floor. I considered taking the stairs, but I don’t want to be out of breath when I get to his door. Just seeing him is going to make me breathless enough.

I knock hesitantly. For a minute, nothing happens. Then I hear scuffling on the other side.

“Hello?” The door opens to reveal a rather beautiful woman. I hope that I’ve knocked on the wrong door, but a quick glance at the number on it confirms I haven’t.

“Hi…” I nervously run a hand through my hair, “I’m looking for Alistair—does he live here?”

She tips her head to the side, but smiles nevertheless, “ _Yes_ —he’s not home, though.”

Although I can’t be _sure_ of their relationship, I feel like I’ve been punched.

“Can I give him a message for you?” She looks at me expectantly.

“Oh,” I blink a few times, “Yes—tell him Anders stopped by… from downstairs… just looking for sugar…”

She squints at me.

“He’ll know what it means…” I add.

“Okay, will do,” she says, closing the door.

On the way back to my apartment, gravity feels heavier than normal. I take the stairs down two flights, but each step is slow and labored. I’m still not sure _why_ —I have literally exchanged probably twenty sentences with Alistair. He’s basically a _stranger_.

I open my door only to find my cat trying to escape—again.

“Oh Pounce…” I tisk at him, “there’s nothing fun about the hallway…” I shoo him back into the living room and flip on the TV. Absently, I pick up my phone. There are a few texts from my friends. We have a permanent group chat going. Most of them don’t apply to me. The most vocal are Isabela and Merrill. Fenris and Hawke chime in here and there. Things are weird now, though, because while I would _definitely_ call them my best friends, they comprise two couples. It wasn’t always the case… but when Isabela and Fenris finally admitted they had feelings for each other, that pretty much sealed my fate. Now they all do couple things together. They always invite me, but I’m not necessarily happy about being the fifth wheel.

 **Isabela:** Anders? R u there?

 **Merrill:** Maybe he’s taking a nap…

 **Hawke:** ...or he died of loneliness.

 **Merrill:** Hawke—you’re terrible.

 **Fenris:** Aren’t you sitting next to each other?

 **Hawke:** she’s just making sure Anders knows she’s still on his side.

 **Merrill:** I want _everyone_ to know I don’t agree with your antics, Hawke.

 **Isabela:** Trouble in paradise, loves?

I can picture Fenris rolling his eyes at this point. He has often complained about the number of texts he gets while he’s at work.

 **Anders:** I’m here. What’s up?

 **Hawke:** sorry, buddy… didn’t mean to imply that you’re going to die alone or anything…

 **Fenris:** you’re making this so much better…

 **Merrill:** don’t worry, Anders; I hit him.

 **Isabela:** We are going down to The Hanged Man… do you want to come?

 **Anders:** ...I’m not sure…

 **Isabela:** what does that mean?

 **Anders:** I might just want to stay in—I had a shitty day.

 **Merrill:** it sounds like you _need_ to come out.

 **Hawke:** C’mon, who else will we harass all night? Fenris doesn’t tolerate it as well as you do…

 **Fenris:** we’ll see who tolerates what…

 **Isabela:** _feisty_.

 **Anders:** It’s just… I met someone…

 **Hawke:** what?!!!

 **Merrill:** Hooray!

 **Anders:** don’t get too excited—it wasn’t what I thought it was… and now I just don’t feel like going out…

 **Hawke:** because he’s coming over? ;)

 **Isabela:** because you want to dock in his harbour?

 **Anders:** I wish. I’ll see you guys later. Have fun.

 **Merrill:** no... Anders, this is exactly the time you need your friends. We’ll see you there in thirty minutes.

 **Hawke:** well, the boss has spoken. There’s no arguing.

He’s right about that. Merrill isn't a very demonstrative person, but when she _does_ say something, everyone else follows it. I get up and change my clothes.

I daydream about running into Alistair in the elevator, but I don’t. I hardly see anyone as I exit the building and head toward the train stop. It’s just three stops to The Hanged Man—that’s why it’s our favorite bar.

Inside, everyone is already there. Including—oh shit— _he’s_ here. Over in the corner, playing darts with an equally attractive group of friends. One is taller with blonde curly hair and the other is a thin brunette, who I feel like I recognize from somewhere.

I stumble toward my friends at the bar, but never let my eye contact falter. When I sit, my legs won’t stop shaking.

“Hi?” says Isabela. “Are you all right?” She raises an eyebrow at me.

“He’s here,” I whisper, “—the _guy_.”

Everyone looks at once.

“God!” I caution. “ _Don’t look_.”

Everyone turns back to me. Fenris rolls his eyes especially pointedly.

“Which one is he?” asks Hawke quietly. “The blonde?”

I squint across the crowded bar. I agree that the blonde is handsome—certainly my type—but I shake my head. “No, the redhead.”

Isabela raises an eyebrow at me. “Ooh, Anders… going for a ginger…”

I’m blushing, I can feel it. “Oh stop…”

“Why don’t you invite him over here?” suggests Merrill sweetly.

“He’s with his friends…” I mumble.

“So invite them too,” says Hawke, clapping me on the back.

I’m feeling twitchy—my fingers won’t stop drumming against the bar. I feel like I’m going to need at least two beers before I’ll be brave enough to go over there. I order the first one and sip it desperately.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” says Hawke. Despite my protestations, he starts walking toward Alistair and his friends.

I try to hide my face, but I keep peeking from between my fingers anyway. When Hawke reaches them, they start shaking hands. It seems to be going okay. No one has started throwing punches, anyway. _Oh god. They’re coming this way._ I start to panic when Alistair looks at me. He’s smiling in this way that I can’t understand—it’s cocky and sharp, but incredibly sexy. _I’m dying_.

“Hey,” I say, standing from the bar. I try to make it seem as if I didn’t see him over there, but clearly I did—how else would my friend have known to invite them over?

“Hi, Anders,” says Alistair. He shakes my hand in a very familiar way—pulling my whole body toward him slightly as he grips my palm. “These are my friends, Cullen and Dorian,” he points to the blonde and brunette respectively. “This is Anders,” he smiles at Cullen in a way that I think connotes something. It makes me feel instantly sweaty.

“Nice to meet you,” I manage. “These are _my_ friends: Merrill, Isabela, Fenris, and Hawke,” I point to each of them in turn.

“Can we buy you guys a round?” asks Hawke. He’s loaded, so it doesn’t matter to him. He’d just as soon buy the whole bar a round as buy one for just for himself.

Everyone nods and we start chatting. It gets friendly really fast—as it usually does with this much alcohol involved.

“My friend says you stopped by my place today,” says Alistair quietly. He’s leaning into my ear so I can hear him over the din.

 _Friend_ — _I’m going to survive after all._

“I did,” I smile. “I needed sugar.”

He laughs and brushes our shoulders together. I stop breathing.

“Let me give you my number… _next time_ you can text me instead of walking up 48 stairs,” he says. He opens his palm between us so I will hand over my phone.

I pass it to him gingerly. “Okay… how long have you lived with that woman?” I ask.

“We don’t live together. She’s just visiting for a conference in town. We’ve been friends since med school. She's a hell of a Doctor,” he answers. “Her name is Bella Surana… you may have heard of her?” He cocks an eyebrow at me.

I shake my head.

“She has a really popular health segment on the morning news,” he explains. “Ask Dr. B.”

I smile. “That's neat. A celebrity is staying with you.”

He laughs. As he does so, he touches my forearm where it is sitting on the bar. He lets it linger there too long to be an accident.

“Well, sometime, I'd like to see your apartment,” he says, leaning toward my face. “I hear all the units are unique.”

I'm on the verge of leaning in to kiss him—we're mere inches apart and I’m pretty drunk—when his blonde friend interrupts us.

“Hey, Al,” he says, “are you ready to get out of here?”

Alistair flinches back at the sound of his voice. I want to grab for him, but social decorum kicks in and I don't.

“I guess that's it,” he says to me. “Text me sometime… if you want…”

I smile and watch him leave.

As soon as I'm sure he's gone I flop into a heap on the bar. My friends crowd around me and all start talking at once.

“He's super cute,” says Merrill.

“Where did you meet him?” asks Hawke.

“I think you're in over your head,” comments Fenris.

I glare at him for good measure before answering the other two.

“I met him in a coffee shop near my gym,” I explain. “Isn't he perfect?”

“Scrumptious,” says Isabela. She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, which makes me shudder slightly.

“...what do you think the story with those other guys was?” asks Merrill.

The question is innocent—meant to be innocuous—but it strikes a chord with me. It reignites a question I had about the blonde one—a few looks they exchanged and Alistair's flinch when Cullen said it was time to go.

“I'm not sure,” I answer. “But I learned that he doesn’t live with anyone…” I'm beaming. I can feel my smile spreading from ear to ear.

“That's good!” says Hawke. He punches my shoulder encouragingly.

“Well, I guess we'll see…” I say cautiously. I happen to glance down at my phone to check the time. A new notification pops up.

 **Alistair:** hey, great to see you tonight. Let's do it again sometime.

“Oh my god,” I squeal, holding the phone up to Hawke. “He texted me.”

Everyone leans over to look at the phone in unison.

“What do I do?” I ask desperately.

“Text him back!” answers Merrill. She makes it sound so obvious—easy. I can't think of anything harder than this.

“What would I say?” I ask.

“Tell him you are glad you saw him too,” says Fenris. He's the most rational of my friends. “And then ask if he'd like to get together again.”

I grimace, but everyone punches my shoulders so I type under duress.

 **Anders:** I'm glad too. Would you like to get together sometime?

“Oh god, it's sent,” I breathe, dropping the phone onto the counter.

“Great!” shouts Isabela. She's toasting Fenris a second later. He leans in for a delicate kiss that makes her blush. I have never seen her so happy.

 **Alistair:** that would be great. When?

“He's back!” I shout, holding the phone up.

Hawke grabs it and reads it to everyone else. “He seems eager, Anders.”

Everyone nods.

“Isn't that good?” I ask.

“Well… maybe,” says Isabela. She leans over my shoulder and speaks into my ear. “But you don't want to see too available… tell him you need to check your schedule.”

 **Anders:** i need 2 check my schedule

Hawke has sent that message before I've had a chance to review it. There is no punctuation or capitalization. It's like nothing I would _ever_ send. I put the phone down on my thigh and hunch over it.

“That is the last time you are touching my phone, Hawke,” I grouse.

 **Anders:** but I'm sure I'm free soon. Do you have any time this weekend?

 **Alistair:** yeah… how about Saturday night?

I can barely breathe. I'm starting to think this whole night is a vivid dream.

 **Anders:** 7 o'clock?

 **Alistair:** I thought you had to check your schedule. ;)

 **Anders:** it just opened up.

Everyone laughs over my shoulder. They're reading the whole thing in real time.

 **Alistair:** I'll text you as if comes closer to solidify the details. See you. :)

 **Anders:** I can't wait.

“Was that a bit over the top?” I ask.

Merrill makes a high pitched noise, “I don't _think_ so… but I can't be sure.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I whine.

“It was fine, Anders,” says Fenris. “You were succinct and to the point.”

“Yeah… very _sexy_ ,” says Isabela. She rolls her eyes fervently, but melts into Fenris when he kisses her. They're still in the disgustingly cute phase.

“I better get home,” I say, suddenly. The emotional energy required for this evening has left me exhausted and a little raw.

“We'll walk to the train with you,” says Merrill. The five of us link arms and wander out into the cool night air.

“I can't believe _Andy_ has a date,” teases Hawke.

“A date?” asks Merrill.

“What else would you call it, puppet?” asks Isabela.

“I’m just not _sure_ …” Merrill scratches the side of her head. “It wasn't _explicitly_ set up as a date, according to the texts…”

I am sweating suddenly. _Maybe it isn't a date._

“Don't worry,” Hawke throws an arm around my shoulders. “It's a date—I can tell.”

I've never so strongly hoped Hawke is right.

 

* * *

 

On Saturday I'm a complete wreck all day. I see my clients in a sort of haze that doesn't clear until I'm back with my phone—desperately checking for messages.

I text the group chat idly.

 **Anders:** I haven't heard anything yet. Should I text him?

 **Hawke:** NOOOOO

 **Merrill:** not yet

 **Fenris:** _again_ … aren't you two sitting together??

 **Merrill:** I'm trying to neutralize his crazy opinion.

 **Fenris:** understood.

 **Anders:** help?

 **Isabela:** not yet, Love. Wait until afternoon, at least.

I glance down at my watch. It's only 11:30am. This is going to be a long day.

At 6:39, I get a text.

 **Alistair:** stuck at work late tonight. Not going to be able to hang. Rain check?

 **Anders:** ok.

 **Alistair:** thanks, you're the best.

“Yeah… the best at sitting alone with his cat…” I say to myself.

 **Anders:** guys, he just canceled.

 **Merrill:** what?

 **Fenris:** don't worry. I'm sure he'll call you when he can.

 **Isabela:** I think you might have come on a little strong.

 **Anders:** what?? It was your fault I ‘ _came on strong_.’

 **Hawke:** I think we've all learned a valuable lesson here, guys… Anders is meant to be alone.

I laugh, but inside I'm afraid he might be right. Experience has taught me that I'm unlovable. My only serious relationship so far was with my college sweetheart, Karl. He was the first guy I was open with about my sexuality and it ended _horribly_. Through a series of unfortunate events, he ended up back in the closet _permanently_ , hurling me into a ten-year spiral of self-loathing. Today, at 32, I was finally starting to see myself as a worthwhile human again.

 **Anders:** thanks, guys. I'm going to go take a nap.

 **Isabela:** don't worry; he'll call.

 **Anders:** how do you know?

 **Isabela:** because I know _men_ … trust me… he'll call.

I can imagine Fenris growling at his phone.

 

* * *

 

 _Is that knocking?_ I open my eyes, somewhat dazed, to find myself on my couch. It's dark out. I can't tell what time it is, but I'm guessing it's pretty late from the infomercial flickering on the TV. Someone is definitely knocking. I wander toward the door and open it roughly. On the other side, Alistair is standing sheepishly. He's holding a bag.

“Hi,” he says.

I blush, instantly wide awake. “Hello… what are you doing here?”

“I just came to…”

I interrupt him, “I thought you were working late?”

“It _is_ late,” he narrows his eyes.

I glance at the microwave clock. It's almost eleven.

“Oh,” I mumble uselessly.

“So… since I had to cancel earlier… I thought I'd bring you a peace offering.” He shoves the bag toward me. I can tell it's Chinese food from the smell. I _love Chinese food._

“Thanks,” I smile.

“So… can I come in?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah,” I step aside and try to rub the sleep from my eyes. “So…this is my place.” I gesture from wall to wall. “Is yours like this?”

“More or less… I have a staircase where your pantry is,” he explains.

“Can I get you a drink?” I ask. “I have…” I lean into my bar and survey the bottles. “Bourbon, scotch, and red wine… Bordeaux, I think.”

“I'm fine for now,” he says.

“So…” I rock onto my heels nervously. “What made you want to come by?”

“Isn't it obvious?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.

I _hope_ it is. My entire abdomen tenses at the thought.

“I wanted to make sure we got to hang out,” he continues.

“ _Hang out_?” I parrot. It's a bold thing for me to say. I wonder if it's the half-sleep that's making me brave.

“Yeah,” he laughs, pushing a hand through his hair, “just us…”

He takes a few steps forward and I meet him. We're suddenly kissing. He tastes like everything good I've ever tasted—sunshine and winter’s first snow.

He tangles his fingers in my hair, which is uncharacteristically down.

I moan against his lips. “I'm so glad you came.”

“Not as glad as you're going to be,” he smirks. His lips are close enough to mine that they brush with every word.

We kiss for the next half an hour without any expectations. I have an annoyingly aggressive erection, but I ignore it. This is _perfect_ —and I don’t want to move too fast. Experience has taught me that that’s almost always a mistake. When my lips feel bruised, I finally back off. We’re lying on my couch—it’s very wide, so when I roll off of him, we can sort of lie side-by-side, facing each other. When I was looking at couches initially, I considered the potential for making out—too narrow was a deal breaker.

“You’re _something else_ ,” says Alistair. He’s grinning.

“Thank you?” I ask, an eyebrow quirked.

He laughs and runs a hand down my side. Where it’s resting on my hip, I feel warm.

“I should probably get going…” he says quietly.

I kiss him again. I don’t want him to _leave_ , but I know he’s right. If he stays any longer we’re going to do things we can’t take back.

“I can walk you home,” I offer.

He laughs, but he doesn’t say _no_ ; he just rolls off the couch and stands up. As he’s straightening his shirt and fixing his hair, he says, “Yeah, okay…”

I’m surprised. It was sort of a joke, but I’m not going to argue.

 

* * *

 

I’ve never ascended _any_ set of stairs so slowly in my whole life. I’m stretching out this experience as much as possible with each step.

“So… sometime soon, let’s get dinner or something?” he asks. He’s holding my hand, which feels ridiculously good—I can’t remember the last time touching someone’s palm has elicited this reaction in me.

“Yeah, that sounds great,” I smile.

We’re at his doorway before I can believe it. He plunges his key into the bottom lock, but does not turn the bolt. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

I lean in to kiss him one more time, but the door opens just before I make contact. On the other side is that blonde guy from earlier—Cullen. He’s giving us a scandalized look.

“Hi again,” he says.

“Hi,” I mumble, backing up.

“See you later,” says Alistair. He doesn’t so much as pat me on the back before ducking inside and closing the door. I hear the lock click a moment later.

My walk back _down_ the 48 steps that separate our apartments feels excruciatingly long. The theory of relativity has never so directly applied to my life. When I get inside, I realize that we never ate any of the Chinese food Alistair brought. It’s still sitting in its bag on the counter. I decide to put it in the fridge and send him a text. He _can’t_ be asleep already, I rationalize. He _just_ went upstairs.

 **Anders:** [picture of Chinese food bag]

 **Anders:** I think we got a little carried away… do you want your food back?

I undress while I’m waiting to hear back from him. When I curl into my comforters, I pick up my phone again.

 **Alistair:** it would give me an excuse to come back…

 _Oh god_.

 **Anders:** You don’t need an excuse—you can just do it.

 **Alistair:** when?

 **Anders:** right now?

 **Alistair:** haha

I’m not strictly kidding. Now that I’m in bed and texting him, that annoying erection is back. I try to ignore it, but my blankets feel scratchy against the hypersensitive skin. I let my hand wander down experimentally. It’s not weird to masturbate while you’re texting a guy you just made out with, right?

_Okay, it’s weird… stop it._

**Alistair:** what do you think about brunch tomorrow?

Before I answer, I consider texting the group for help, but that would require explaining that he came over after he canceled and all the making out and the weird interaction with that guy who is in his apartment downstairs. _Hey… what is that guy doing there?_

 **Anders:** does Cullen live with you?

I regret asking instantly. _Why am I so nosey?_

 **Alistair:** No. why?

_Because that guy creeps me out._

**Anders:** no reason. Brunch sounds good.

 **Alistair:** great.

 **Alistair:** [open table reservation confirmation]

 **Anders:** you’re quick.

 **Alistair:** only with you.

Now I’m _really_ having a hard time controlling myself. I finally give in and touch myself a little. He’s not _saying_ anything else anyway. I imagine the way his lips felt and how he smells. I remember the way he groaned into my mouth and the drag of his stubble against my cheek. And that’s all it takes—I’m coming a second later across the expanse of my stomach. As soon as the haze clears, I’m acutely aware of how _weird_ that was. It might border on creepy. I grab a t-shirt from the floor beside me and try to contain the mess.

When I have adequately cleaned up, I curl back onto my side under the covers and try not to feel like a sociopath. My phone lights up again.

 **Alistair:** I can’t stop thinking about you.

 **Anders:** really?

 **Alistair:** ha. Yes.

 _What does that mean?_ I want to ask him to explain it, but after just orgasming with his face in my mind, it feels wrong. The ellipsis for ‘typing’ shows up, anyway. I’ll just wait to see what he says.

 **Alistair:** Do you want me to come back?

My breath catches. The answer is _yes_ , but I don’t want to seem overeager. Also, I just made it so that I won’t be able to have sex again for a little while. That might be a good thing— _protective_ , possibly? While I’m deciding what to say, he types more.

 **Alistair:** that’s a terrible idea. Sorry I asked. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?

 **Anders:** ‘terrible’ is an exaggeration.

 **Alistair:** oh yeah? :)

 **Anders:**...but if you come back… It’s going to be hard on me.

I hit send, but wish I hadn’t. I throw the phone into the pillows and roll onto my stomach to stare into the blue-green light of the screen.

 **Alistair:** what do you mean?

 _Oh god, he’s going to make me say it_.

 **Anders:** ...if we spend the night together… i’m going to want to *spend the night together*

 **Alistair:** are you _propositioning_ me? I was only suggesting a sleepover. ;)

 **Anders:** I only let gorgeous men sleep in my bed if they’re going to earn their keep.

_Okay, this is going better. At least we’re flirting._

**Alistair:** I need to go to sleep.

 **Anders:** see you tomorrow.

 **Alistair:** I’ll pick you up at your door.

I decide that I had better go to sleep while I’m still charming and not creepy. I put my phone into its dock on my bedside table and roll to face the ceiling. Strangely enough, I am sort of hard again. This guy is going to ruin my life. I can feel it.

 

* * *

 

The next morning my eyes pop open at 6am. I’ve only been asleep for five hours, but I can’t _imagine_ going back to bed. Instead, I get dressed and go for a jog around the neighborhood. It’s quite urban, but there are great running sidewalks. The crispness in the air reminds me that winter is just around the corner. I zip my jacket up to my chin and put in my headphones. I decide on a pump-up playlist. I need something light in order to get through this day. I need to feel _powerful_ , not at all frazzled.

The three mile loop feels easy today. Everything looks, sounds, and smells better. I’m scared to admit it, even to myself, but this feels like the beginning stages of falling in love. _Shut up, Anders. You’re the worst._

I’m starting to think that everything in the world is going to be perfect from now on when I arrive back at our apartment and witness something disturbing.

“This is fucking unbelievable,” yells Cullen. He looks _pissed_. He’s standing next to—presumably—his jeep. The back hatch is open and he’s throwing a duffle bag inside unceremoniously. I follow his gaze to the object of his ire—it’s Alistair.

I duck behind a hedge and try to wait it out.

“You’re being ridiculous,” says Alistair. He looks overwhelmed. He’s running a hand over his face as he says the next sentence. I can’t understand it. _Damn._

“Al,” Cullen rubs the back of his neck with his palm. “You can’t _extort_ someone into being in love with you!”

_What does **that** mean?_

“Fine…” says Alistair.

He turns back toward the front of our building and I make sure I’m completely hidden. Meanwhile, Cullen slams his car door and peels out of the parking lot.

 

* * *

 

I shower and dress in almost complete silence. I don’t even turn on the radio. I’m too nervous about what I just saw. What does any of that _mean_?

At quarter past 11, I get a text.

 **Alistair:** I’m not feeling at all well today; I need to reschedule.

 _Perfect_.

I decide I need help. I text the group.

 **Anders:** SOS. Meet at Hawke’s?

Hawke’s house is the largest, the nicest, and the most centrally located. I decide not to write anything back to Alistair until I’ve gotten some outside opinions.

Everyone agrees and we are there half an hour later.

“I don’t understand,” says Merrill after I’ve explained the whole thing. “He cancels last night, then he comes over unannounced. He’s all over you, but then suddenly leaves. Then he texts you to make plans, and now he’s canceled them again?”

“That just about sums up my confusion,” I knuckle my left eye.

“And what do you think the deal was with that Cullen person?” asks Isabela. Her voice sounds serious, but she’s making a face that drips with sex. Fenris catches it and scowls.

“...I don’t know,” I growl. “This is terrible. Why do I always fall for guys who are nightmares?”

“C’mon, Andy,” says Hawke. “It’s not that bad… I’m sure there’s some explanation for all this. I mean… everyone has _baggage_ , right?”

Merrill glares at him transiently.

“Okay…” I chew my bottom lip. “What do I do now?”

“Text him and say you saw him outside,” says Fenris. Everyone stares at him.

“Really?” I ask.

“It’s what I would do—why play games?” asks Fenris. It _sounds_ reasonable, but I’m terrified.

 **Anders** : Sorry you’re not feeling well... Incidentally, I saw you outside earlier.

I hit send before I have a chance to back out and then wait. ...and wait… and wait… fifteen minutes later, we’ve barely said anything to each other and there has been no response from Alistair.

“That’s it,” I stand. “I’m going to become a monk.”

Everyone laughs, but I feel like I almost mean it. I seem doomed to repeat the same patterns over and over. With Karl it was ‘the gay thing,’ but with Alistair it seems to be ‘the blonde, super gorgeous, highly tortured, probably an astronaut thing.’ _Ugh._

 

* * *

 

The next day I have clients. It’s another week starting. To say that I’m unhappy at work would be an understatement. Eventually, though, _Sweet Dreams_ by the Eurythmics comes on… and that _is_ my jam. _It’s the little things_.

 **Fenris:** How are you doing?

He’s texted me individually today. I think that’s sweet—he wants me to feel comfortable to actually _talk_ if I need to. I don’t, though. There’s nothing to say.

 **Anders:** I feel like shit. But it will pass… eventually.

I really wish I hadn’t made out with him—I wish I hadn’t been all _hot and bothered_ about it afterward too. It just makes it harder to forget him now that I know what the inside of his mouth tastes like.

 **Fenris:** I think you should march down to his door and demand an explanation.

 **Anders:** really?

 **Fenris:** not for _him_ —for you… so you can get whatever closure you need.

 **Anders:** Thanks, Fen. That’s really good advice.

I decide that’s exactly what I’m going to do when I get home. Only twenty minutes later, I see him—in _my gym_. I wonder if it’s possible to go into the locker room and hide—of course it isn’t! This is the problem with dating _men_!

My manager comes over a moment later. He leaves Alistair standing at the reception desk. “There’s a guy here who wants to see you…”

“Can’t you give him to someone else?” I ask.

“He has your card…”

I roll my eyes, “Okay… send him back…”

He walks toward me slowly. He isn’t really dressed to work out.

“Hi,” he says, contrition in his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” I ask quietly. I don’t want anyone to overhear this conversation. “It’s pretty inappropriate to come to my work like this…”

“I know… I just wanted to talk to you…” he says.

“You could have just _called_ ,” I argue. “Besides, I’m not an _escort_ —you can’t pay to just _talk_ to me. If you’re going to be here, we have to be training.”

“Fine,” says Alistair. He actually almost smiles, which I find unseemly. “Let me change.” He turns to reveal a duffle bag at his hip.

When he returns from the locker room, he’s wearing a very stylish ensemble: red minimalist sneakers, charcoal grey joggers, and a thin white v-neck shirt. I hate how much I like him.

“So what are your goals?” I ask.

He smiles, “I’m working on improving my deadlift.”

“What’s your one-rep-max?” I ask.

“305,” he counters.

That’s pretty good, but looking at his glutes, I bet he can do better. “Let’s start with some swings… just to warm up your hip hinge.”

He starts to argue, but I interrupt. This is _my_ gym. “Do 10, every minute on the minute. During the 40-or-so seconds of rest, you can tell me whatever it is you came here to tell me.”

He nods and picks up a 32kg kettlebell. It’s an ambitious weight for a warm-up. He’s definitely showing off. He finishes the first round and immediately starts talking, “I’m sorry I didn’t text you back yesterday.”

“ _Why_ didn’t you?” I ask.

“I wasn’t sure what to say… that was a _very_ bad conversation to overhear,” he explains. “It was totally out of context—”

The timer hits the top of the next minute and he counts out 10 swings again.

“—Cullen was just upset…” he finishes, putting the bell down. He grabs chalk out of the bucket and coats his palms. A puff of white powder floats between us.

“Is he your ex?” I ask.

“No,” he answers quickly. “Not even close.”

Another set of swings commences. I’m waiting with baited breath now.

“...but I used to be in love with him,” he admits.

My chest deflates. A burning sensation has erupted in my guts.

“He’s mad because he thinks I’m trying to make him jealous with you— _which I’m not_ ,” he adds.

“Why would he be jealous if you weren’t even together?” I ask.

Alistair completes the fourth set. He’s panting when he answers, “It’s really complicated.”

_Great… just what I need._

“Try to get your hips back a little further,” I instruct. Even though I’m really confused, I can’t let his form suffer—I’m a _professional_. “You’re pulling with your arms instead of letting your hip hinge do the work.”

He nods and picks up the bell for the fifth time.

“That’s better,” I coach.

“And I’m sorry I said I wasn’t feeling well,” he shrugs and wipes his forearm across his forehead. “That was stupid.”

“Yes, it was,” I agree. “...but I’ve been in enough complicated scenarios to understand why that seemed like a good idea at the time.”

He smiles sadly. We finish the rest of the sets in silence. He moves on to some other movements. I make him do a lot of correctives because although he’s strong, he has some bad habits.

“You kicked my ass,” he says an hour later. “I need to train with you more often.”

“You can,” I smile.

“Can I also convince you to have dinner with me tonight?” he asks.

I _should_ say no, but I don’t. “Only if you promise not to cancel.”

“I promise,” he smiles and leans toward me. I feel electricity crackle between us. “I’ll come get you at seven.”

He leaves to take a shower. I _try_ not to picture it.

 

* * *

 

I take the train home instead of walking. It’s only one stop, but it’s cold and it has started to rain. I text the group.

 **Anders:** I think we worked it out.

 **Hawke:** who?

I roll my eyes. How _quickly_ everyone has forgotten about my plight.

 **Anders:** Alistair and I.

 **Merrill:** How did that happen?

 **Fenris** : did you go to his apartment?

 **Anders** : no. I didn’t have to—he came to see me at work.

 **Isabela** : I hope you didn’t forgive him on the spot.

 **Anders** : How little faith you have in me. I made him workout first.

 **Hawke** : hahahahaha

 **Isabela** : workout or “work out”?

 **Anders** : He _was_ sweating by the end of it.

 **Isabela** : that doesn’t answer my question.

I’m smiling idiotically at my phone. A woman across from me glares. Trains are a strange microcosm. I decide to text Alistair.

 **Anders** : you did great today

 **Alistair** : thanks. I had a good coach.

 **Anders** : if you want to to PR your deadlift, I can get you there, you know.

I’m serious, actually. He’s _built_ for lifting heavy loads—I can tell just from looking at him.

 **Alistair** : I think you just want to see me bent over.

I am blushing—hardcore. My face cracks into a ridiculous smile. That woman across the train car rolls her eyes this time. Apparently, I’m not allowed to be happy.

I smile the whole way up to my apartment. When I get there, I’m shocked to see Alistair slumped against my door. He looks like he’s been sitting there for a while.

“Hi?” I look at my watch. “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”

“I know,” he stands, smiling. “I couldn’t wait.” He grabs me around the waist and pulls me in close. He smells like soap—and _danger_.

He’s kissing me a second later. I struggle to get my keys into my lock around him. We tumble into the living room and flop onto the couch in a tangle of arms and legs. His mouth is so soft—I can’t really understand it. _What does he use to moisturize his lips?_

He ends up on top of me this time. He pulls back enough that I can keep his features in focus and grins.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re so great… have I mentioned that?” he says.

I’m smiling so hard it hurts. “So where are we going tonight?” I ask.

He props himself up over me on an arm and fiddles with the neckline of my shirt. “Have you ever been to Via?” he asks. It’s a really popular tuscan-fusion restaurant downtown.

I nod. “Only once; it’s really good.”

“Do you want to go there?” he asks.

“Sure,” I smile.

“That will require getting off this couch, though, won’t it?” he asks. His palm is flat on my chest now.

I laugh, “I think so…”

My phone vibrates obtrusively between us. It makes him jump. I grab it from my pocket and hold it over us. It’s the group text.

 **Merrill** : what’s happening now? Is he there?

 **Hawke** : I bet he is… why else would Anders not be answering?

 **Fenris** : maybe he’s in the shower.

 **Isabela** : maybe they _both_ are.

I blush furiously once I realize that Alistair can see this too. “Sorry… they’re always teasing me like that.”

He laughs, “I have friends too—I know what it’s like…” He leans in close enough that our noses brush. He nuzzles me like a cat—it tickles even more than when Pounce does it because Alistair’s facial hair is wiry.

“So you told them about me?” he asks.

I bite my bottom lip. I’m not sure how much I should reveal. “Well, they met you the other day at the bar.”

“But you seem like you’ve said more…” he adds perceptively.

“Well…” I wrap an arm around his waist. “I was a little upset… after what happened.”

He deflates. “Yeah, I can understand that. Do you think they’ll forgive me?”

“Maybe,” I joke. “You might have to buy them off.”

He laughs. “Do you want to invite them to dinner?”

It hadn’t occurred to me. “Really?”

“Yeah… they’re obviously your best friends… and they seem to be two couples…” he suggests. “Why not make it three?”

The implication that _we_ are a couple sends my imagination hurtling toward weddings and babies. I try to turn it off.

“I’ll ask them,” I say, picking up my phone.

 **Anders** : would you guys like to have dinner at Via with us?

 **Isabela** : us? I _knew_ you guys were in the shower…

“She’s funny,” says Alistair.

I roll my eyes. “She _can_ be—she’s a little crass too…”

 **Hawke** : we’re in.

 **Fenris** : us too.

 **Anders** : see you guys there in an hour?

 **Isabela** : you’re not _done_ yet?

 **Fenris** : Leave Anders alone, Bel.

Alistair laughs again. He’s letting his head rest on my shoulder now, looking up at the screen as I type around him. It’s a presumptuous posture for him to assume, actually, but I don’t mind. I love the way he feels in my arms.

“So…” he cranes his neck to look up at me. “Do you think we _should_ take a shower? We wouldn’t want to disappoint your friend.”

I laugh. “Not a chance.”

“I had to try…” he grins, settling back into me. This time, he lets his hand wander across my abdomen and cross the transition of my pants. If he continues further he’s going to find… _something_ … there… I try to shift to avoid it.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I sit up, pushing him off as I go. “I just need to take a shower. You can come back in a little while or you can wait for me, if you want.” I look around the apartment awkwardly. “I have a cat here somewhere.”

“I’ll wait for you,” he says, standing. He puts his arms around me again and kisses me. He’s all over me this afternoon.

“Okay,” I smile and let my head drop onto his shoulder. “See you in a minute then…”

In the shower, I feel a little awkward. I make sure the door is _really_ closed and lock it. Just knowing he’s sitting out there makes me feel a little turned on _and_ creeped out. After all, he’s still basically a stranger.

When I get out, I sneak a text to the group.

 **Anders** : guys, I’m really nervous.

 **Merrill** : why?

 **Anders** : ...because I really like this guy… but I'm _scared_ of him.

 **Hawke** : what does that mean?

 **Anders** : he’s… complicated?

 **Fenris** : just be yourself. We’ll make sure he behaves at dinner.

I take a steadying breath and go to open the door, only to remember that I need to cross the living room to get to my closet. The setup of my apartment is a little weird and I’ve elected to use the second bedroom’s closet instead of the master, because it’s bigger. I wrap a towel around my waist and prepare to make a dash for it. When I open the door, Alistair is standing in the kitchen, drinking water.

“Hi,” he looks at me appraisingly.

“Hi… excuse me for a second,” I’m blushing again.

I manage to get myself dressed and somewhat put-together looking before I see him again. I realize that we unintentionally sort of match now. We’re both wearing plum-colored shirts. His is a thin sweater, mine is a button-down, but _still_. 

“You look great,” he says.

“Thank you.” I pick up my keys off the counter and turn the kitchen light off. “Are you ready?”

“One second,” he says. For the third time today, he pulls me flush against his chest and kisses me. It’s sweet, but it’s also possessive— _hungry_. And he tastes amazing—I’m not _complaining_ —but I’m not sure what it _means_.

 

* * *

 

By the time we get to the restaurant, my friends are already sitting. They’ve graciously left two seats open next to each other so Alistair and I can sit together.

“Hi everyone,” he says. His expression is friendly and charming. He shakes everyone’s hands even though he met them a few days ago.

As soon as we’re sitting, he drops a palm on my knee under the table and squeezes. I smile at him. This is literally the first time I’ve ever been on a triple date with my friends. I’m sort of excited.

When the server comes over, Hawke orders two bottles of wine for the table. No one bats an eye that he’s chosen them off the reserve wine list—he always does stuff like that and he always pays, so we don’t worry. Alistair looks stressed transiently, but I wink at him and he smiles.

After the wine pouring ritual is complete, Isabela holds her glass up to toast. “To Andy finally getting some,” she says.

Everyone bursts out laughing, including me, even though I’m dying inside.

           

* * *

 

The dinner is great. The whole thing proceeds smoothly. Alistair gets along perfectly with everyone. As it turns out, he sort of knows Isabela, through mutual friends. I can only imagine what _that_ means.

When we finally get back to our apartment building, we stand in front of the elevator awkwardly. “Aren’t you going to take the stairs?” I tease.

“I can’t. This insane trainer _killed_ me today,” he jokes.

I lean in to kiss him. He’s slow and soft—he tastes like wine. I think he had more than I did.

“Do you want to come up?” he asks.

“To your place?”

He nods. “Bella left when my other friends did,” he explains.

The mention of ‘ _other friends_ ’ ignites something jealous in my guts because I know that’s code for Cullen, whose situation is still a mystery, but I force my face into a neutral smile.

“Okay… maybe for a little while,” I answer.

He takes my hand and pulls me into the elevator.

His apartment is much nicer than mine. Not only does it have an additional bedroom, but the decorating is much better. He has really _expensive_ taste; I can tell.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask, handing him my coat.

“A little over a year,” he answers. “Do you like this layout?”

“Yeah… we could _both_ live here without even seeing each other,” I blurt.

He raises an eyebrow at me.

“Not that I'm proposing we move in together,” I babble.

He laughs and kisses me, “I know what you meant…”

I let my hands settle on his hips.

“Do you want to see the rest of the place?” he asks.

I know that’s a polite way of saying, ‘ _can I show you where the bed is?_ ’ but I go along with it anyway.

Predictably, the tour ends in his master bedroom, which is actually up a flight of stairs in a loft. He has a rod iron canopy bed. It’s lovely.

“Is this where you were texting me from the other night?” I ask, sitting gingerly on the edge.

“Yes…” he smirks, sitting next to me.

I want to ask if that’s _all_ he was doing—mostly just to assuage my own guilt about the whole awkward mess of that first text conversation—but I don’t.

He leans in and kisses me. I run my fingers through his hair and moan into his mouth. We’ve done a lot of kissing in the last few days. And after that dinner, I feel ready to see what he looks like under these clothes.

I turn until I can straddle his hips. He lets me push him down easily and reaches up to unbutton my shirt.

 _Thank god I didn’t eat that much at dinner_.

When my shirt is just a memory, I push his sweater off over his head. His chest is exactly as magnificent as I expected it to be. He is _so_ lean.

He runs his hands up and down my back, as much as he can reach, and that’s when I notice that he’s just as turned on as I am. I look at him quizzically. Truth be told, I almost _laugh_ —not because it’s funny, but because I’m not sure how to _be_. I haven’t done this with anyone in a while—particularly not someone I liked this much.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he hisses.

“So are you,” I echo, curling against his chest. When our skin touches it’s warm and soft—the fine hair on his chest isn’t scratchy like his beard.

“I haven’t wanted anyone this much in ages,” he whispers into my ear. His voice is breathy and full of gravel. And despite how much I _want_ to hear him say that, I don’t _believe_ him. He just told me that he was _in love_ with Cullen earlier that same day. The whole thing feels gross suddenly. I back up.

“Are you okay?” he looks at me breathlessly.

“I think I need to go home,” I say, looking for my shirt.

“What just happened?” he asks, following me across the room.

“I just…” I interrupt myself, “I don’t feel that good about whatever you have going on with that _guy_ … and I’m not looking for drama—”

He looks offended. He crosses his arms over his chest, which is still bare and perfect. I avert my eyes.

“...I’m at the stage in my life where I just want to meet someone nice and get married,” I say. It’s a rare moment of transparency, but something about this whole situation is reminding me of what my goals are: a house where I can experiment with cooking and set up a home gym… maybe raise children… a partner who likes to cuddle and knows how I take my coffee.

Alistair bites his  bottom lip.

“...and that’s obviously not what you want,” I conclude, buttoning my shirt and tying back my hair. I storm down the stairs and out into the hallway. It sounds stupid, but I almost cry. Not necessarily because of _him_ , but because this experience makes it seem like I’ll never find _anyone_.

Back in my apartment, I look at some texts I’ve missed from the last hour.

 **Merrill** : we all love him

 **Isabela** : he’s hot

 **Fenris** : hey…

 **Isabela** : sry…

 **Hawke** : he _is_ hot, Fen…

 **Merrill** : what matters is that Anders is happy… right?

 

This is too depressing. I put the phone down on the counter and go into the bathroom to splash water on my face. When I come back, I have more notifications… more praise for my non-date, I’m sure. Except it _isn’t_ —it’s Alistair.

 **Alistair** : please let me in…

I open the door to find him standing there pitifully.

“What do you want?” I ask. I haven’t gestured for him to come in. I’m wedging myself between the door and its frame.

“To meet someone nice and get married,” he says.

_I’m dead._


	2. Part 2 - La La Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months later everything seems to be going perfectly...but not everything is what is seems.
> 
> \--------
> 
> Definitely read the Christmas challenge "12 Days of Anderstair" before this for more context.

* * *

 

**Six months later (June)**

“Love, you're going to be late,” I chide. Alistair is a _bear_ in the morning. He groans and growls until he's finished his first cup of coffee—which he takes blonde, but unsweetened, by the way.

“It's okay… my interns are about to graduate, anyway…” he says. “They don't need me.”

I perch on the edge of the bed and kiss his forehead. “I'm _sure_ that's not true.”

“Can you please come back to bed?” he asks. “Just for ten or fifteen minutes?”

“What do you think you'll actually accomplish in that paltry amount of time?” I smirk.

“I don't know—let's find out,” he snakes a hand around my waist and pulls me back toward him. He's still naked— _and beautiful_. But I'm already dressed and heading to work for my first client of the day.

“I have to go—see you tonight, Love.” I kiss him again and take off.

We still technically have two apartments, but I barely use mine. I have spent more than half the nights of the last six months in unit 506. Even Pounce thinks we live there. I carry him between homes daily. I'm planning to bring it up—the possibility of cohabitation—but I haven't had the guts. I want to tell him I love him first… I haven’t had the guts to do _that_ either.

On my walk to the train, I look down at my phone. Our group chat is still going strong.

 **Isabela** : how's life is la-la-land, Andy?

 **Merrill** : I think he might be too love drunk to answer

Even Merrill makes fun of me now. I don't mind, though. I have the sexiest boyfriend I can imagine. Nothing can eviscerate my good mood.

 **Anders** : that reminds me, I need your help, guys.

 **Hawke** : what can we do, bud?

 **Fenris** : is this serious?

 **Anders** : I want to move in with Alistair. I'm not sure how to ask him.

 **Isabela** : you guys basically live together already. Why don't you just bring your stuff upstairs tomorrow and be done with it?

 **Fenris** : that is _horrible_ advice.

 **Anders** : I just want him to know that I'm _ready_ to take the next step.

 **Merrill** : ask him to dinner... and while you're there, tell him you love him and you think it's ridiculous that you still pay two rents.

 **Anders** : that's the problem… we haven't said… _that_.

 **Fenris** : you've been dating for half a year. You're not in love?

 **Anders** : It isn't that. I'm definitely in love with him, we just haven't said it.

 **Merrill** : he definitely loves you.

 **Hawke** : it's obvious.

 **Isabela** : just shout it out the next time you're banging him—that's the easiest time because if it doesn't go well you can blame it on the heat of the moment.

 **Hawke** : you're terrible

 **Isabela** : I know.

I'm laughing when I get onto the train and it carries me through the whole day. Before I know it, I'm reversing my course and heading home. I stop by my apartment to pick up a few things and then proceed to the fifth floor. I'm early. Maybe we'll have time to make dinner together.

I find music blaring into the hallway and the door unlocked—it’s that same kind of jazz that Alistair always plays. This isn't unusual; he’s probably cleaning—this is the music that pumps him up to vacuum, apparently.

I'm about to call out for Alistair when I see an unfamiliar coat slung across the back of a chair and a messenger bag next to it on the floor.

I walk into the living room and don't see anyone, but a glint of light makes me look into the loft. Shadows flicker against the wall. I'm not sure why, but I creep up the stairs noiselessly.

_Oh god._

Just 5 stairs up, I see it. The love of my life kissing a handsome blonde. I've only seen him twice in my life, but his face is etched into the darkest recesses of my mind—It's fucking Cullen.

I'm completely silent. I turn on my heel and I'm half way back to my apartment before I even realize I'm crying.

I shut the door and bolt it behind me. Pounce comes bounding out to see me. I slide down the wall and end up slumped on the floor. I pick up the phone and call Hawke. I don't even know _why_ he's the one—I just feel like he'll know what to do.

“Hawke?” I sob.

“Hey... buddy, are you okay?” asks Hawke. He sounds horrified.

“Alistair's cheating on me,” I cry. I'm a complete mess. My eyes sting and I can't breathe.

“How do you know?” he asks.

“Because I came home early and caught him kissing his ex… or non-ex… _whatever_ ,” I trail off. In my head, I replay our first conversation about Cullen. Alistair said, ‘I used to be _in love_ with him.’ Words he's _never_ said to me. Words he never will, I'm sure.

“Oh my god, Anders,” says Hawke, “I'm so sorry.”

I can hear Merrill in the background, she's asking what is going on—why he looks so pale. He hesitates.

“It's okay, Hawke,” I manage, “you can tell her. I need to go anyway…”

“Anders?” he pauses, “Do you want me to come over?”

“No…” I answer unequivocally. “It's nice of you to offer, though. I'll call you tomorrow.”

I drop the phone at my side and wait. I know it will be about 3 minutes before the group text explodes on my behalf. I can't bear to look at it, though. On some level, this feels like it's _my fault_. I knew Alistair was a mess when we got together—I knew he was dangerous. He _warned_ me.

“But I _love_ him,” I say to no one.

It's 6pm, but I'm so exhausted I can't stay upright. I drag myself to my bed and crawl under the covers. I haven't slept here in weeks. It doesn't seem like anyone ever did. The sheets don't smell like Alistair, but they don't smell like _me_ either.

_Who am I without him?_

* * *

 

A few hours later, I wake up hot and uncomfortable. I start stripping off layers of clothes before getting back in bed. I notice my phone is lighting up like crazy and I pick it up. It's almost midnight now. I have six missed calls and 8 texts—they're all from Alistair.

 **Alistair** : hey, babe, just wondering when you're going to be home.

 **Alistair** : hey… did you have a crazy day at work?

 **Alistair** : I ended up coming home early...

 **Alistair** : are you thinking fish or beef?

 **Alistair** : sweetie, it's getting late. Are you ok?

 **Alistair** : I'm starting to get worried—please call… just to let me know you're ok.

 **Alistair** : I tried to call Hawke, but he didn't pick up.

 **Alistair** : what's going on???

 **Alistair** : I'm beginning to freak out. Where are you?

The most recent one was sent just two minutes ago. I’m crying again. I can't seem to stop. My eyes hurt and I want to crawl into a hole and die.

There's a knock at my door. I know who it is before I look, but I creep toward the peephole anyway. Alistair looks really _nervous_. For a second, I think about opening the door, but I don't.  I don't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me like this. I shuffle away from the door and go back to bed, burying my head in the pillows. I have never been so thankful I never gave him a key.

* * *

 

The next morning, I can't bring myself to go to work. I reschedule my clients and stay in bed until 1pm. At that point, my anxiety is starting to kick up and I know that the only _real_ remedy that works for me is aerobic exercise. I put on my sneakers and head outside. I pull my hood up in case I see anyone I know—I don't feel like doing pleasant small talk. It’s June, and incredibly stuffy, but that is a small price to pay for anonymity. Before I start running, I get a text from Hawke.

 **Hawke** : dude, Alistair called me a _bunch_ of times last night. I finally talked to him at like 1am. He was really worried.

 **Anders** : what did you tell him?

 **Hawke** : I said I couldn't get in the middle… but I _implied_ that you aren’t dead...

Good. I don't want to see him.

 **Hawke** : but… I think you should tell him you're ok.

 **Anders** : what?? The guy is fucking _cheating_ on me.

 **Hawke** : I'm not saying that you should forgive him… but he might report you as a missing person if you're not careful.

 **Anders** : ok.

I start jogging while I think about what to say. I think about calling, but I don't think I can do it without crying. I decide to text him around the two-mile mark.

 **Anders** : I'm ok. You can stop worrying.

 **Alistair** : holy shit, Anders, I have been going crazy. Where were you??

 **Anders** : I went home.

 **Alistair** : what? What do you mean?

 **Anders** : you know… to the apartment I pay for? The one with _my_ name on the lease.

 **Alistair** : why?

He's such an asshole. I can't believe he's playing dumb like this—he thinks he's gotten away with it.

 **Anders** : this isn't working for me.

 **Alistair** : what???

 **Anders** : we need to break up.

 **Alistair** : what? Why? Anders, _please_.

Before I even have a chance to type a response, he's calling me.

I answer, annoyance shrouding the lancinating pain I feel. “ _What_?”

“Anders, I don't understand what's going on,” sputters Alistair.

I think he's _crying_.

“This isn't working. We need to break up,” I say as callously as I can.

“But…” he chokes out a little sob, “Anders, I thought everything was going so well…”

“So did I,” I blurt.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I clear my throat to keep from crying. This is the most painful conversation I've ever had in my life. Worse than breaking up with Karl by a factor of ten. “Just drop off my things outside my door and I'll put them inside later,” I instruct.

“Oh my god, Anders,” he cries, “can't we _talk_ about this??”

“I'm sorry, but we can't,” I say definitively. Why is he this upset? Doesn't he have a supermodel-astronaut to fuck? “Goodbye, Al.” I hang up.

* * *

 

When I get back from my run, Alistair is sitting outside my door—camped out, arms across his chest. His face is tear-worn.

“What are you doing here?” I groan.

He stands, “I'm here to try to get a fucking straight answer out of you.”

_That's rich._

“Anders,” he grabs both sides of my face to force me to look at him, “I love you.”

My heart breaks. I have been _waiting_ for him to say that to me for months and now he says it like this??! When I've _seen_ him with someone else?

“What kind of an idiot do you think I am?” I shake my head free.

“What?” He looks horrified.

I bury my fists in my hair and pull, hard enough that it's a little painful. “I can't do this.”

“Why?” he asks. He's desperate.

_Because you won't come clean with me. Because you're trying to trick me. Because you never loved me at all—not if you could DO that with someone else._

“I don't love you,” I lie. The words escape through my mouth with a hiss. “I don't see any kind of a future for us. We're done.”

He staggers back against the wall. Tears are streaming down his face now. I silently pray that no one comes down the hallway—they'll think I'm the worst person in the world based on what he looks like. Little do they know it's the other way around.

“Fine…” he manages. He wipes his face on the cuff of his sleeve and turns to walk toward the stairwell. “I'll drop of your things tomorrow…”

“Fine,” I open my door and quickly step behind it. I'm on the verge of losing it and I don't want him to see.

The second the door slams I'm sobbing again—more angrily than ever. My sense of _fairness_ has been assaulted. Why would he continue to pretend when it's so obvious I've caught him? Moreover, why is he sad at all? Why not just run off with Cullen into the sunset?

Then it occurs to me: maybe Cullen didn't want him. He never did _before_ —for a decade. Maybe Alistair lured him to the apartment somehow, told him he's _still_ in love with him and kissed him, only to be _rejected_.

I laugh a little hysterically. _I'm a consolation prize. I always have been._

* * *

 

I pick up the phone to call Hawke, who has called me three times since I last looked.

“Hi,” he says cautiously. “Did you talk to him?”

“Yes,” I manage. I'm still sort of crying, but outrage is helping me hold it together. “I broke up with him.”

“Wow…” Hawke sounds shocked. “So is he getting back together with his ex?”

“How would I know?” I snap.

“Well…” Hawke clears his throat in confusion. “He must have said _something_ about him… if you were angry enough to break up…”

I pause. “He didn't come clean.”

“What do you mean?” asks Hawke. “He denied it?”

I scoff, “No. He wouldn't even bring it up. I told him this wasn't going to work out and all he did was _cry_.”

“He _cried?”_ Hawke is incredulous.

“Yeah…” I swallow audibly, “ _sobbed_ , actually—”

Hawke doesn’t really respond, but I can hear him breathing.

“I really need to get out of here,” I whimper.

“Yeah… Hanged Man?” he offers.

“I’ll leave now,” I hang up.

* * *

 

The train ride to the bar feels interminable. I’ve never been so angry and raw and _ruined_. I feel like I’ll _never_ recover. When I get there, Fenris and Isabela are already sitting in our corner. Merrill joins them a second later.

“Where’s Hawke?” I ask.

“He just went to take a call,” explains Merrill. “He’ll be right back.”

I slide into our usual booth next to Fenris, who pushes over into Isabela to make space for me.

“So… I’m sure Hawke already told you…” I mumble.

All their faces fall at once, but only Merrill speaks.

“Andy, we’re _just…_ ” she pauses to look at everyone else briefly, “we’re a little _concerned_ that you might have made a rash decision…”

I blink. _What the fuck is happening here?_

Fenris pipes up, “Anders,” he puts a hand on my shoulder steadyingly, “we’re not saying you’re _wrong…_ and if he did what you think, then we’ll never speak to him again,” he pauses while everyone else nods in agreement. “...but we’ve all come to _know_ Alistair—this just doesn’t sound like him…”

“Well, none of you were there,” I snap. “I _saw_ them.”

“What were they doing, exactly?” asks Isabela.

I’m perturbed that they’re making me relive this, but what else did I expect? _I_ don’t believe it any more than they do.

“I came home and found them upstairs,” I say through clenched teeth, “...and they were sitting on the bed— _our_ bed—kissing.”

“Were they _dressed?_ ” asks Isabela.

“Does it _matter_?” I counter.

“Well, it matters a _little_ , Anders,” says Merrill. “For all you know, Alistair might have pushed him away two seconds after you fled!”

I have considered that already—it’s a tiny ember of hope in the back corner of my mind that I’m afraid to hold onto.

“ _That_ sounds more like something Alistair would do,” says Fenris.

I can’t believe everyone’s sticking up for my boyfriend like this. _Ex-boyfriend_.

“Even still,” I push a hand through my hair and close my eyes. “If he pushed him off or didn’t, _why_ were they there in the first place? How did they end up in the bedroom?”

Everyone shrugs. My heart sinks again. I was actually _hoping_ someone would be able to provide me with a logical explanation.

“We just think you should talk to him…” adds Hawke; he’s over my shoulder suddenly. “And…” he sits next to me, draping an arm around my shoulders, “please don’t be angry, but I called him…”

I turn, horrified, ready to start yelling, when I see Alistair in Hawke’s shadow.

“Can we talk?” asks Alistair. He looks nervous.

I look at each of my friends in turn and take a deep breath. I can feel my face becoming a mask.

“Okay…” I nod. _C’mon, Anders… don’t freak out._

Alistair leads me to a smaller booth on the other side of the bar. He has—presumptuously—gotten me a drink. The fact that he knows exactly what I’d order makes me perversely happy, though.

“Hawke explained what happened,” he says.

I look at him blankly.

“...that you _saw_ … and that you were so hurt that you left,” he continues. “I _wish_ I had heard that from you.”

“Well, _I_ wish you weren’t cheating on me, Al.” My voice is alarmingly shrill when I hear it.

He looks wounded. “That’s _not_ what’s happening,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. Little does he know, I'm _rooting_ for him. I _want_ to be proved wrong. I _wish_ I could think of a plausible explanation.

“Cullen showed up unannounced,” he begins.

I bristle at his name.

“I haven’t spoken to him _at all_ since we’ve been together,” he says. “So I was really surprised… but I let him in.”

I fold my arms across my chest.

“He's moving here—he's gotten a teaching gig at the university…” he explains.

It occurs to me that I have no idea what Cullen _does_ —I made him an astronaut in my mind, remember?

“...and he wants to make amends—wants to straighten things out between us,” Alistair bites his lip. “And I was reluctant. I said I wasn't sure if we could do that… I told him he's _bad_ for me… that _you're_ the only good thing I've ever had in my life.”

I suck in a little gasp.

“But then... he _finally_ admitted that he loves me… after literally _years_ of saying he didn’t… of telling me—and everyone else we know—I was _crazy..._ ” explains Alistair. “I tried to throw him out of the apartment… I literally pushed him toward the door…”

Alistair is gesturing now—acting it out as he goes.

“And then… he kissed me… pushed me against the wall and…” he pauses.

I nod, even though I _hate_ where this is going.

“I was completely shocked—and it felt so good to be _vindicated_ … after all this time,” mumbles Alistair.

I feel like crying again. “It sounds like _you_ still love _him_.”

He shakes his head vehemently. “I _don’t_.” He reaches across the table and hooks his fingers around my crossed forearms. “I have never loved _anyone_ like I love you.” He lets that sink in, staring at me. “It took him finally giving me what I _thought_ I wanted to realize it.”

“I still don’t understand… why were you upstairs with him?” I bark.

He winces. “It was a _mistake_ , Anders—a huge one.”

“How far did it go?” I ask. I’m dreading the answer.

He bites his bottom lip. “I don’t want to lie to you… some _things_ happened.”

I feel like my throat is closing—I can’t seem to breathe. I lean into the table and rest my face in my palms.

“I need you to leave,” my voice is muffled in the fabric of my sleeve.

“Anders, please,” he orbits the table, coming to sit on my left. “I’m so sorry—it was the worst mistake I’ve ever made.”

“It’s just…” I clench my jaw, trying to stay calm. “I won’t be able to trust you again if I have to keep picturing you with him in the back of my mind. We’re _ruined_.”

“ _Please_ ,” he wraps his arms around me, “Give me a chance to show you how much I love you—to _prove_ you can trust me again.”

I look up at him and try to blink through a blinding haze of tears.

He takes in a shaky breath, “Move in with me.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes... because when your relationship is in ruin, you should definitely double-down. ;)
> 
> Don't worry... things are going to get better... eventually.


	3. Part 3 - Personal Growth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 18 months later (1 year later than the [Winter Challenge](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9539903)) Anders is putting his life back together. Back in medical school, with a therapist and a hint at a new relationship, he's starting to heal. _Until..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: angst, adult language and themes

* * *

**18 months Later**

**_(1 year after Winter Challenge)_ **

**February**

 

* * *

 

“So that chapter of my life is pretty much over now…” I cough. I feel so awkward telling a complete stranger all this.

“So essentially, you were dating this guy for a little over a year… living together _for_ … how long?” asks my therapist.

“About 7 months… but it was a _disaster_ the whole time… because I could never forgive him.”

“And where is he now?” she asks.

“He moved to Brooklyn—I'm not sure which neighborhood…” I'm actually thankful I don't know—I probably would have gone to find him by now. “He's working in a hospital there now—he got a really good job offer just as we were breaking up and he and took it.”

“So what are you hoping to get out of therapy, Anders?”

 _I'm not exactly sure._ I bite my lip and blink a few times, trying to think of how to put it into words.

“I guess… some closure?”

She nods. She has a nice face—very symmetrical, smooth skin—but I'm not attracted to her. That's the main problem of the last year—I'm not interested in _anyone_ , transference notwithstanding. Hence why I'm _here_ , sitting in a mental health counselor’s office, a full year after Alistair and I broke up.

“So have you talked to him since you separated?” she asks.

Her name is Reimas. She's been in practice for five years, according to her website’s bio. I picked her because she _didn't_ specifically advertise that she specialized in “LGBT issues.” I'm not having an LGBT issue… I'm having a _human_ issue.

“I haven't spoken to him at all. I blocked all his contact info the day he left and erased all the backups,” I explain. “I used to know his number by heart, but I sort of forced myself to forget it.”

“I see,” she says. “Well, things like this take a bit of work, but you seem like you're ready—let's dive in…”

She proceeds to ask me a variety of probing questions about my past relationships, my friends, and my sex life—which, honestly, is pretty much non-existent at this point. I try to answer her as honestly as possible and we begin the arduous process of fixing me.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, I get a series of texts that I _know_ Reimas would encourage me to handle.

 **Hawke** : at least meet him—Fenris says he’s great.

 **Anders** : I just don’t feel _ready_

 **Merrill** : it’s just a date, Anders… you don’t have to marry him.

 **Isabela** : at least get your dick wet.

 **Fenris** : that’s my lovely bride, folks…

 **Hawke** : hahaha

This group chat gets more ridiculous all the time.

 **Anders** : what’s his name again?

 **Fenris** : Renee Trevelyan—he’s some kind of anthropologist—he bought some art from my gallery and we've become friends lately. 

 **Anders** : that _does_ sound interesting…

 **Hawke** : just have dinner with him.

 **Anders** : I’m not sure… I don’t have a lot of free time…

 **Isabela** : If you use the ‘ _I’m in medical school_ ’ excuse one more effing time...

 **Anders** : fine… set it up.

That’s my one _big_ accomplishment of the last year: I _finally_ went back to school. The day after Alistair left I promised myself I wouldn’t let fear cripple me anymore. So I called B.U. and asked what their re-matriculation process was. A year later, here I am—almost finished with my second academic year, including all my old credits.

It’s been busy, but it’s been _great_ … and I’ve made a lot of new friends who are awesome. That is not to say that my old friends are any less important, though. We still talk every day. And despite my incredibly busy schedule, they have been trying to get me ‘ _back out there_ ’ for months. I barely feel ready to _think_ about having a new relationship, but I can probably manage a date. I _would_ like to kiss someone—maybe fool around a little. _I’m human_.

 **Renee** : Hi. This is Renee. I got your number from Fenris?

_That was quick._

**Anders** : Hi. So... this is a little awkward, right? Getting set up like this?

 **Renee** : haha. Yes. But Fenris won’t shut up about you.

 **Anders** : That’s nice? I think?

 **Renee** : All good things.

There is a dead space for a few minutes. I’m not sure who is supposed to make the next move in this scenario.

 **Renee** : so... would you like to have dinner with me tonight?

 **Anders** : tonight?

 **Renee** : if that’s too soon…

 **Anders** : no. it’s fine. Meet me here:

 **Anders** : [pin drop on apple maps]

 **Anders** : 7:30?

 **Renee** : I’ll see you then. :)

 

* * *

 

The restaurant I picked was a place I’d never gone with Alistair. That was no accident.

As I sit nervously waiting for this mystery man, I wonder transiently if this is _the_ person who is finally going to make me forget about Alistair. I doubt it.

About ten minutes later, I see a strikingly handsome brunette enter the place. He scans the crowd furtively and smiles when he sees me. The first thing I notice is that he’s _young_ —like probably _ten_ years younger than I am. It’s a little horrifying.

“Hey,” he says, “you must be Anders.”

“Yeah.  You’re Renee?” I ask.

He nods, sitting across from me.

“This is super weird,” he says. “I’ve never been on a blind date before.”

“Me neither.”

We both laugh.

“So, what do you do?” I ask.

“I’m getting a PhD in anthropology right now.” His eyes light up; they are a _shocking_ shade of green, I notice. “I’m studying family systems throughout the world.”

“That’s neat,” I say. “What made you get into that?”

He blushes, “Well… I’m _gay_.” He says it like it’s _obvious_.

I smile. I’m really wondering how old this kid is. He seems about _twelve_ , now that we’re talking—smart, but idealistic.

_Is this how I seemed before Alistair ruined me?_

“And I hear you’re in med school?” he asks politely.

“Yes—after a long hiatus” I take a sip of my drink, “but I was a personal trainer for about eleven years before that.” I say that particular thing because I’m hoping it will elicit a reaction—maybe he’ll tell me how _old_ he is—but he doesn’t even blink.

“That’s great,” he smiles, “I could use your help, I’m sure.” He taps his abdomen jokingly.

Actually, he looks quite fit—not like an _athlete_ , but like a naturally well-built person.

The rest of the night passes easily. We find lots of things to talk about. He has cool hobbies, a family he likes: lots of siblings—he’s the _baby_. ( _You can say that again_.) He someday wants to have children of his own.

By the time we get to the end of the date, I realize I’ve managed to say hardly anything about myself, which is sort of a relief.

“I had fun,” I say on the sidewalk. “We should get together again,” I suggest.

He smiles and looks like he’s considering kissing me, so I step in and make the choice for him.

He is a gentle kisser. Soft lips—barely even any stubble. I like it because it’s not like anything I’m used to.

“I’ll call you,” I say, when we separate.

He bites his bottom lip. “I hope you do.” He gets into a cab and waves as it drives away.

I decide to walk home.

 

* * *

 

 **Anders** : just finished the date.

 **Fenris** : how did it go?

 **Anders** : pretty well, I think.

 **Isabela** : it’s over already? It can’t have been _that_ good.

 **Merrill** : give Andy a break—this is a big step…

 **Hawke** : first date on the books, buddy. Nice work!

 **Anders** : quick question: how old is he?

 **Merrill** : lol. I told you he’d notice, Fen.

 **Fenris** : he’s 25.

 _Well, I guess we’re only 9 years apart_.

 **Anders** : He seems _very_ young. I don’t even think he can grow a beard.

 **Fenris** : did you give him a _chance_ or were you comparing him to _you-know-who_ the whole time?

 **Merrill** : [angry emoji]

 **Hawke** : [rolling eyes emoji]

 **Isabela** : [kissy face emoji]

 **Fenris** : what does that one have to do with it, Bel?

 **Isabela** : it’s what I’m going to do to YOU.

 **Hawke** : get a room.

I laugh aloud, alone on the sidewalk. I love these guys.

 **Anders** : I gave him a chance… we kissed.

 **Hawke** : yesssss!!!!!

 **Merrill** : are you this excited about kissing me?? ;)

 **Hawke** : I like vicarious kissing better

 **Anders** : lol. I'm heading home. I have to do a _ton_ of studying.

 **Fenris** : I'll get the scoop from Renee and let you know what he thought.

 **Anders** : please do…....see you at the thing tomorrow.

 **Hawke** : what thing?

 **Merrill** : ugh… you forgot?? Anders’ white coat thing?

 **Hawke** : I didn’t forget… I was just kidding.

I’m not sure if he’s kidding or not. Either way, I’m sure Merrill will get him there on time. This has been on my calendar for months. It’s a _huge_ deal in the medical school strata. After the actual coats get distributed, there is a gala. All the proceeds go toward funding a rural hospital project.

 **Hawke** : don't worry, I'll be there.

Despite how awesome this event promises to be, I have been avoiding actually _thinking_ about it for months. I don’t want to be there _dateless_. I decide to go out on a limb. I switch windows to Renee’s text from earlier.

 **Anders** : this is totally random, but do you think you'd like to go to an event with me tomorrow?

 **Renee** : What kind of event?

Well, that isn't a _no_.

 **Anders** : Well.. it’s my white coat ceremony… there’s a gala… it’s pretty formal.

 **Renee** : wow. I haven't had an opportunity to wear a tux in ages. Count me in.

 **Anders** : great. I'll send you a link to the info. Can I pick you up at 6?

 **Renee** : absolutely. :) I can't wait.

I smile to myself. I'm going on two dates in two days. I'm almost like a normal person. That's me— _normal Anders_.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, I wake to a flurry of texts between Merrill and Isabela. They're all about what they are wearing tonight and nothing that I really need to know. I love the group text, though, because it makes me feel like I'm a part of their lives even when we're apart. As I go through my day, I have a strange urge to flirt. I send an experimental text to Renee to see what happens.

 **Anders** : hey, how are you today? :)

A few minutes pass before I get a response. I walk to my next class and settle in without too much worrying.

 **Renee** : just trying to figure out what to wear tonight. Should we coordinate? Haha

 **Anders** : well… I’m going to be wearing a white coat eventually… so… white?

 **Renee** : lol, what about pocket squares?

 **Anders** : I'm sure you'll make a perfect choice. Let's leave any potential matching up to fate.

I wince—Alistair and I used to unintentionally match a lot...right from that first dinner with my friends and onward.

 **Renee** : sounds perfect. I can't wait.

 **Anders** : me neither. :)

That's enough. I don't need to lay it on _too_ thick. I have a feeling I can already sleep with him if I want to. I'm not _sure_ that I do, but I might. He _is_ very nice-looking.

 

* * *

 

I pick him up a few hours later. He looks especially handsome dressed up like this. So do I, actually. We arrive arm in arm and some photographers snap our picture— _the administration really went all out for this_. Renee puts his arm around my back for all the photos, but lets it linger longer than is strictly necessary. It feels _nice_ , actually. We make our way to the bar before finding our seats and are chatting idly when someone I recognize—someone I _can't forget_ —throws an arm around Renee’s shoulder.

“I'm so sorry to interrupt,” says Cullen. He's smiling broadly as Renee turns. He hasn’t looked at me yet.

“Oh my god, Cullen,” says Renee, “what are _you_ doing here?” He hugs him, clapping him on the back.

“This is my alma mater! I always come back for these things… at least when the invite says ‘ _open bar_ ’,” Cullen laughs and brushes a hand through his perfectly arranged blonde curls. “How about you?”

“Oh, my—” Renee cuts himself off, apparently not sure what to call me, “this is Anders… he invited me.”

At the exact second Renee gestures to me, Cullen’s eyes widen—recognition dawning.

“Hi, Anders,” he seems to get _shorter_ , his eyes heavy with something like contrition. “It's good to see you,” he shakes my hand.

“You too,” I lie.

“Oh, you _know_ each other?” asks Renee. He's smiling broadly. “Cullen and I go way back. He was my faculty adviser in undergrad.”

_Oh my god, I've never felt so old._

“You taught anthropology? I thought you were a psychiatrist?” I ask.

“Yes… I used to… _medical_ anthropology, mostly…” he blushes.

I hate how endearing his stupid expressions are. Everything he does with his face makes him _more_ attractive.

“What's _your_ connection?” asks Renee. He's looking right at me.

“Uhh,” I stammer, “Cullen and I have a mutual friend.”

_Good one._

“Who?” prods Renee. “Anyone I know?” At least he's asking Cullen this time.

Cullen clears his throat. He won't look at me. “It's um… it's Alistair, actually.”

“Oh! That's great!” says Renee, as if everything in the world makes sense now. “Did you get his save-the-date?” he asks Cullen happily.

_His **what**?? It's been a year. I haven't even been able to date properly, but he had time to get engaged???_

The whole room starts to spin.

“Yeah, Dorian opened it the other day…” mumbles Cullen.

“Is Alistair here?” asks Renee.

“Yes, he's just over at the bar,” Cullen points behind me. I don't _want_ to turn. I can't _imagine_ looking, but I do it anyway—like a reflex. And there he is: in all his glory.

“He's receiving an award tonight, actually,” explains Cullen. “A bunch of us came to support him.”

Alistair is smiling at a group of women, with his arm around a small blonde—it’s _Icis_ ; she looks as powerful as ever. She's holding her left hand out while the other women fawn over what, based on their expressions, is a _huge_ diamond. He's laughing, blushing a little. I remember when _I_ was the person who got him to turn that color.

While I’m gawking, someone else sidles up next to Cullen and kisses his cheek.

“Anders?”

I whirl and realize it’s Dorian. “Hi, how are you?” I ask politely.

“Fantastic, what are you doing here?” he asks, shaking my hand. It isn’t lost on me that his other arm is wound around Cullen’s back. If I weren’t so _perpetually_ fucked up about this, I would think it was adorable. I always thought they had a little _tension_.

“This is my class, actually,” I clear my throat.

He nods and smiles, “Congratulations.”

Before he can say anything else, I hear Alistair laughing over my shoulder.

“We should make sure Al doesn't get into too much trouble,” says Cullen.

“Isn’t that Icis’ job now?” jokes Renee.

“Not for another couple months,” smirks Dorian, excusing himself. “We’ll catch up with you later, Renee.”

 

* * *

 

When they're out of earshot, Renee is still smiling. “I owe a lot to them… it's a little embarrassing to admit, but I wasn't _out_ until I met Cullen…” he says.

I squint at him. _Where is this story going?_

“...I was really afraid to tell my family… academia is still an old boys club, in a lot of ways. But Cullen took me under his wing and introduced me to all his friends… and when I found out he was bisexual—openly—it showed me that I could be the academic I want to be without compromising who I am.”

I smile. Despite the buzzing in my head, it’s a pretty cool story.

“...When I got to know Dorian, we discovered that we’d been through a lot of the same things family-wise. We all got a lot closer after that… and then I met Alistair because he always hangs out with them.” he explains. “He's _so_ great. How do _you_ know him?”

“I used to live with him,” I answer tersely.

Renee looks confused. “Like… in college?”

“No… like, he used to be my boyfriend,” I back up suddenly. “I'm sorry, Renee, I need some air—and a _minute_.”

Something has snapped. I'm hurtling toward vomiting or passing out—maybe both. But all I can do is look for _him_. I have to see him again—it's insatiable. I scan the room in whirling swaths. I'm feeling dizzier by the second.

I can't take the compression around my neck suddenly and I have to pull my tie loose. I also need _air_ —and space. I run toward the exit and circle the building to a quieter part of the perimeter. I lean over a metal railing and try to breathe. It’s only February, so I know it’s way too cold to be outside without a jacket—but I can’t feel it.

Suddenly, there's a hand on my shoulder. I don't even have to look—I know him by smell.

“Anders?” says Alistair tentatively. “Are you okay?”

He looks exactly the same, except his hair is less messy than the last time I saw him. His eyes are deep and liquid in the moonlight. I want to let myself fall into his arms instinctively, but he isn't _mine_ —not anymore.

“I think so,” I answer.

“I didn't know you were going to be here,” he says. “I had no idea you were back in school… Anders,” he reaches for me, “I’m so _proud_ of you…”

I could throw up. I remember how warm I felt when he first told me I was capable of this. I lean back against the railing and exhale. “You're getting _married_.”

We look at each other for a beat.

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “In August.”

“Congratulations?”

He bites his lip and shakes his head. At first I'm not sure what that means. An _insane_ voice in my head insists he doesn't think congratulations are appropriate because he's _very unhappy_ and he misses me every hour of every day, but he explains it a moment later.

“You don't have to _say_ that, Andy,” he says.

The nickname hurts. I wish he didn't say it.

“Just so you know,” he swallows, “I wasn't _planning_ this,” he assures me.

“That doesn't really matter right now,” I say.

“Yeah, I guess not,” he looks down at his shoes and scuffs a heel against the concrete.

“Are you happy?” I ask. I lean forward so our faces are just inches apart. I want to see what his eyes look like when he answers.

“Yes,” he says.

But I don’t believe him. I do the stupidest thing I can imagine. I close the gap and kiss him— _hard_. A little mewling sound escapes between our lips and I can't tell which of us made it. I think I might die of happiness until reality settles back in.

He pushes me away—both palms flat on my chest. “Please—we can't do this.”

“Why?” I almost yell. It's petulant, but I have lost my filter.

“Because _this_ is what broke us up...only reversed,” he answers. It's so sensible; it makes me want to cry. “And I'm never doing that again.”

I nod, leaning back against the railing.

“But Anders… why didn't you ever return my calls?” he asks. He sounds genuinely wounded.

“ _What_ calls?” I ask stupidly.

Then I remember that day… sitting on the floor, blocking his contact info—email, phone number, twitter, instagram. I did it to protect him from _me_ , actually. ...or me from myself. I didn’t trust that I’d be able to _not_ call—but I never imagined he’d be the one trying to reach me.

“I called you every day, starting the _very next_ day after I moved out,” he explains. “I sent texts, emails, I even contacted Hawke, who told me to _fuck off_ —not in so many words…”

My mouth is dry—I can’t _believe_ this.

“After two solid months of trying to get you to talk to me, I gave up,” he adds. “I thought you never wanted to see me again… so I started to move on.”

We look at each other breathlessly.

“And then Icis and I ran into each other… she’s doing her residency at Columbia…”

“...and one thing led to another,” I finish the sentence for him.

He nods remorsefully.

“Alistair,” I grab his hands between us, “I don’t know what to do.”

He squints at me, “Andy… there isn’t _anything_ to do—I’m with Icis now… I live hours away. We’ve separated our lives.” He drops my hand. “It _happened_.”

 _And we can’t take it back_.

“Besides, haven’t you moved on too?” he asks me. “Cullen told me you’re here with Renee.”

I’m blushing; I can feel it—and _not_ the nice kind.

“We just met…” I mumble.

Alistair smiles at me, “He’s really nice.”

Silence falls around us. We’re at an impasse.

“I need to head back in,” he says finally. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” I nod. I don’t believe it, though.

“I’m sitting over with the other alumni… just make sure you say goodbye before you leave, okay?” he asks.

I’m not sure _why_ he wants to stretch this out. It hurts like a festering wound.

“And Andy?” he pauses, “ _Congratulations_ … this is a big night—I remember mine like it was yesterday.”

I nod, but the wind is gone from my sails. I feel like I should just drop out of school again and save myself the pain of sitting through this evening.

 

* * *

 

Back inside the hall, I finally see Hawke and Merrill.

_Thank god._

“Andy,” says Merrill cautiously, “I know what’s going on—I got the whole rundown from Fenris, who talked to Renee…”

I look down at her miserably.

“...and I’m sorry that you’re feeling like this… but you _need_ to hold it together until the end. You’ve spent a _year_ getting to this point—and you’re going to be an _amazing_ doctor,” she whispers.

I nod and try to relax my face. “I’m okay.”

Hawke pats me on the back. “We’re sitting at your table. You might want to check in with Renee before you go backstage.”

“Okay,” I let him lead me over there.

Renee looks a little pale, but he smiles when he sees me.

In my periphery, I see Alistair shaking hands. He’s just ten feet away.

“I’m sorry about that,” I say too loud, leaning over Renee.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I kiss his cheek as I sit. It’s _stupid_ , but I want Alistair to see it. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms he _has_. His face falls slightly, even though he has one arm around his _fiancé_. I’m fighting an urge to _hate_ Icis, suddenly. It’s _ridiculous_ —I’ve only met her once and I really liked her, but she’s suddenly an obstacle.

Renee disrupts my ruminating. He reaches for my hand on my lap and squeezes it. He’s so sweet and unassuming—too bad _I’m_ rapidly turning into an asshole.

One of our professors motions for me to head back.

“I’ve gotta go… wish me luck…” I manage to smile. It’s stupid because all I have to do is walk to the center of the stage wearing a white coat, but everyone says ‘ _good luck_ ’ anyway.

They line us up by matriculation number. Mine is 2250—relatively near the beginning of my class. The Dean enters ahead of us and we file out in order. The stage lighting is super bright—I almost feel like it could trigger a migraine. I straighten and try to bear it during her opening remarks.

“Good evening, everyone. I would like to thank each family member, friend, and colleague of these fine students for being here today.” The audience applauds. “Additionally, I would like to thank our illustrious alumni for coming back to us from all over the globe.” She smiles broadly at a clump of doctors of all ages. Alistair, Cullen, and Dorian are beaming right in the middle.

I’m not actively listening to the rest of her speech, but it seems to be going well because there’s scattered laughter and lots of smiling. Alistair is bouncing in his seat slightly—nervous energy pouring off of him. He must be up next. Icis is rubbing the nape of his neck reassuringly. She didn’t _go_ here, of course—she went to Tufts when Alistair worked there—but she’s one of _them_ : the accomplished, fully-fledged doctors.

“...and with no further ado, I’d like to introduce our first award recipient,” says the Dean.

“Thank you,” says Alistair. “I’m Dr. Theirin, and I’m incredibly honored to be one of the recipients tonight. When I was a student here—” he interrupts himself to look at the audience and smirk, “ _too_ many years ago now…” They laugh politely. “...we didn’t have this beautiful reception hall. We didn’t have this big of a banquet either. But what we _did_ have was each other—the people in my class are the people I can call on to this day if I need anything from clinical advice to the recipe for Jerk Chicken.” He grins at Dorian, who is laughing now. “That’s going to be true for _all_ of you,” he looks at the group of us, but _mostly_ at me. My throat tightens around a lump of unexpressed tears. “Because what we build here is _community_ …” he continues.

I let his voice drift over me. It’s reminiscent of something I used to do in bed. He had a habit of reading aloud to me. He loves books. He reads like an insane person; a four-hundred page novel might take him three days. He started by just reading passages, but eventually it morphed into reading entire books to me out loud. He has a _beautiful_ speaking voice.

That very moment, I know I’m never going to be happy with Renee. The whole thing is basically tainted already, and he’s such a _nice_ kid—I don’t want to hurt him. I resolve to tell him I’m not ready to be in a relationship in the next few days and try to move on. Alistair certainly has. Besides, I’m busy with school and soon I’ll be busy with a residency. I have _lots_ to look forward to… even if none of it includes Alistair.

I manage to make it through the rest of Alistair’s speech without sobbing, which is a small miracle. Afterward, we finally get our coats and are left to mingle.

“Hey, Andy,” says Hawke, “congrats.” He hugs me in his usual bear-ish way.

Everyone else echoes his sentiment.

Regardless of if I ever find anyone to love romantically, my heart is _full_ of love in general. I have the best friends in the world. 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next challenge starts on March 1st! Mark your calendars! Bookmark the series! Subscribe! ...and in the mean time, visit me on [tumblr](http://ponticle.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/ponticle) and say hello! :) 
> 
>  
> 
> **Thank you!**


	4. Part 4 - Professionalism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year after their chance meeting at the White Coat Ceremony, Anders attends a seminar in Los Angeles. Alistair is there too.
> 
> _________________
> 
> (This work sits one year after chapter 3 and six months after the '5 Months Apart' Challenge.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E: All the sex happens.

* * *

**One year Later**

**(Six months after ‘ _5 Months Apart_ ’ challenge)**

* * *

 

“Oh god, yes,” I breathe. Someone’s mouth is around my dick. I only wish I could remember his name.

_Steven? Stephan? St—I know it starts with an S._

Someone comes into the bathroom and we freeze. I’m the first to admit, this _isn’t_ ideal. My life has been reduced to fucking random people in public places to avoid my pervasive loneliness.

This weekend I'm traveling for school—a seminar in Los Angeles on advanced spine stability training. It's super interesting, but these seminars often get out of hand after hours—hence the dick-sucking.

“That was close,” he laughs. His breaths feels icy cold against the spit he's deposited. I wince slightly.

“Yeah…” I laugh nervously. At this point, I just want to call it. It isn't a good enough blow job to warrant the uncomfortable position I'm in.

“Maybe we'd better get back out there—I wouldn't want anyone to miss you,” I try my hardest to keep the pleading from my voice.

But he's determined, “We have a minute.” He grabs my hips hard and pulls me forward. My dick jams painfully against the back of his throat. He gags.

_Great. Super._

“Thank you,” I say with finality, zipping my fly.

He blushes, “See you around.”

We open the stall door carefully and duck out into the main area. We wash our hands side by side in silence. I want to crawl into a hole and die. I hope to god that I don’t see him in any lectures. The silver lining is that my erection has completely vanished. I won't have to worry about adjusting myself when I go back out there.

We nod to each other at the threshold and never look back. I hate this whole thing. It doesn't feel _good_ , and yet here I am. I guess it feels better than the alternative—the way I used Renee was reprehensible; I'm not doing that again. _And_ … my heart still feels like it's in pieces… so I can't _give_ myself to anyone...

_It's safer this way._

I wander down the street to my hotel. It's a pretty nice place—they have this conference here every year, only I've never attended before. The whole thing runs five days. Everything starts up tomorrow, so I checked into my hotel this afternoon.

I flip through the channels aimlessly. There's a lot of stuff on that could be considered soft core porn. It doesn't really appeal to me, though. All that moaning and fawning just seems ridiculous. The reality of sex in _my_ life is so much _sadder_.

Eventually, around 2am, I nod off, only to be awakened by a fire alarm two hours later. I discover (while freezing to death on the sidewalk outside the hotel) that there is a very boisterous cheerleading competition taking place in the hotel. Something about burning hairspray. I'm too tired to really listen.

Just when I finally get settled into a good sleep rhythm, my alarm goes off.

“God, why do you hate me??” I yell into my pillow.

I drag myself through the motions of getting dressed. I tie my hair into a topknot and smooth my stubble before throwing on a pair of chinos and a thin black shirt. It's a wicking material I really like. I spend two or three minutes posing in front of the mirror. I have to admit, I look _hot_. This education has done some really good things for my self-esteem: I feel _powerful_.

With my ego fully inflated, I grab my bag of stuff. It’s mostly just reference books and note packets.

In the lobby, there's a Starbucks.

_Thank god._

It's a long line, but it's worth it. I can taste the coffee already. I stare at my phone as the line moves forward glacially.

 **Anders** : day one

 **Anders** : [picture of the Starbucks line]

 **Fenris** : good luck

 **Merrill** : take pictures of your hotel for us

 **Anders** : why?

 **Merrill** : because we love you.

It makes no sense, but I smile anyway. She's so cute.

I make it to the front of the line before I realize it, only, when I get there, the barista hands me a drink before I order.

“Uh… what?” I squint.

“Your friend ordered for you,” he explains, gesturing vaguely behind me.

I blink and try to follow his gaze, but I don't have to look far.

“Americano: black… right?” asks Alistair.

I can feel myself smiling. I don't mean to, but it's impossible to stop. “Yeah… that's me….”

Alistair shoulders a messenger bag and pushes his glasses up on his nose. His hair is a little shorter.

“Thank you,” I manage.

“You're welcome…” he smiles.

I realize that we are kind of in the way at the same time he does. He puts a hand on my arm and ushers me toward a small table in the corner.

“I am surprised to see you here,” he says.

“Yeah, I’ve pretty much decided on becoming a non-surgical spine specialist… so…”

He blushes at that—that’s what _he_ is, after all.

I smile, “We just can't seem to stop running into each other.”

_Back up, Anders. He's married._

My eyes dart to his left hand. He's moving it around fast enough that I can't see if he's wearing a ring or not. Even if he _isn't_ the ring-wearing kind, I remember the date of their wedding— _last year_.

“So… are you in town for the seminar?” I ask.

 _It’s stupid_ — _why else would he be here_?

He nods, “I'm giving a lecture on management of lumbar spine instability—you’d probably like it...It's not until the last day, though.”

“I didn’t realize you were teaching that one,” I open my weekend schedule packet and flip to the class descriptions. I had already circled his session. I turn it toward him demonstratively.

“Oh, that’s great… make sure you read the note packet first,” he raises an eyebrow. I think he’s serious, but he probably feels weird about _teaching_ me.

“What are you doing until then?” I ask.

_Why am I so nosy?_

“Going to some of the sessions,” he smiles in a way that I remember. _He_ thinks I'm nosy too. “...and frantically practicing my lecture.”

“If you need help, let me know,” I joke. In an uncharacteristic display of bravery, I lean into the table, “I have a new number,” I pull a card out from my pocket and scribble my new cell on the back.

He takes it, but he looks wary.

“If that's going to get you in _trouble_ , we can pretend I didn't do that and rip up the card,” I suggest.

“It's not that,” he says, putting the card in his pocket, “I'm just… _glad_ we ran into each other.”

We smile placidly until I realize I'm late. “Thank you again for the coffee,” I say, waving goodbye.

 

* * *

 

During the day’s sessions, the material is hard enough that I'm able to mostly shut off my internal monologue. As soon as they're _over_ , it's another story. My mind spins and whirls all the way up to my hotel room and through my shower. When I get out, I decide it's time to let everyone else know.

 **Anders** : you guys, you're not going to believe this. Alistair's here.

 **Hawke** : whaaat??

 **Isabela** : good lord.

 **Merrill** : did you know he was going to be there?

 **Anders** : no!!! Obviously.

 **Hawke** : is Icis there?

 **Anders** : I didn’t see her.

 **Hawke** : when did they get married?

 **Anders** : I don't know…

 _That's a lie:_ the date is etched into my brain, but I don’t like to _think_ about that wedding—it’s where my subconscious goes when I’m at my worst.

 **Fenris** : what are you going to _do_?

_Do?_

**Anders** : I don't know what you mean.

 **Fenris** : are you going to tell him you're still crazy about him?

I blush from my cheeks to my chest. Fenris never beats around the bush.

 **Anders** : I doubt it, but I'll keep you in the loop.

 

* * *

 

I dry off in a cursory manner and throw on a pair of sweatpants. I hop into bed and page through the room service menu. Just before placing an order, I get a text.

 **Alistair** : hey, are you hungry?

 **Anders** : I was just about to order room service.

I'm not sure why I told him that. It isn't exactly an answer. It also doesn't paint me as a popular, successful person, who has made _friends_ this weekend. On the other hand, it _is_ better than what I was doing last night at this time.

 **Alistair** : want to order room service together?

_What is he getting at?_

**Anders** : okay. I'm in room 1545

 **Alistair** : I'll be right down.

I'm shaking suddenly. And it occurs to me that my hair is still wet and I don't have a shirt on. I scramble to find one that sort of makes me look more put together.

He knocks a minute later.

“Hi,” I smile and push a too-long lock of wet hair out of my eyes.

“Hey,” he steps inside. He's wearing sweats too. He looks relaxed. If I'm honest with myself, he looks _edible_. It's terrifying to admit, even in my head.

“So, what do you feel like?” I ask.

He looks down at the floor and fiddles with the hem of his shirt, “Well… this is all a bit _much_ , actually.”

I squint at him, perplexed, but I figure it out momentarily. “I meant about _food…_ ”

“ _Oh_ … I guess I'll just have something small…” he laughs. “I'm not actually that hungry.”

“Aren't _you_ the one who wanted to get dinner?” I tease.

“Yeah, _well_ …” he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

A minute passes; we look at each other with quiet intensity. ...and then it _shatters_. He's on me a second later. His hands tangle in my wet hair and he's pushing me backward into the bed. I let myself fall—he crawls to straddle my hips and he's taking my shirt off before I even get a handle on the situation. 

“Anders,” he pants my name like a secret prayer and I'm hurtling toward new highs in terms of arousal— _and_ _confusion_.

He struggles to pull my pants down. This is all moving really _fast_ —by normal standards, anyway. I admit that it's sort of _slow_ compared with _what's-his-name_ from last night.

He rubs against me and leans in to whisper in my ear. “You are so fucking hot.”

I shiver. He's really good at this kind of talking once he gets going. It harnesses his love of words and his propensity for crassness. It's definitely a turn on for me.

“What do you want?” I ask him. It's a game we used to play—he tells me in vivid detail. It’s alarming how easily these habits are coming back to us.

“I want to get out of these clothes and kiss every inch of you,” he begins.

I roll us until we're on our sides facing each other and pull the rest of his clothes away. They fall somewhere in the distance.

True to his word, he kisses a line from my mouth down the branch of my throat and against my collarbone. A trail of spit cools against the air in his wake.

“When I saw you in the coffee shop this morning, I wanted to fuck you right then and there,” he breathes. His voice is gravelly and even though his lips are busy kissing me in unimaginably nice ways, he manages to smirk.

“Yeah?” I cajole him. “How did you want to do it?”

“Straddle you over a table,” he runs a hand down my stomach and licks his lips, “sink onto that perfect cock…”

I am so hard I can barely stand it, but something stops me from touching myself—I feel exposed in a way I’m not used to: _emotionally_? I take a steadying breath, “Tell me something else.”

“When I saw you this morning, I remembered that time in _our_ Starbucks…” he raises an eyebrow at me.

“Oh god,” I moan. I know exactly what he's going to say.

 He is so far down my abdomen now that my cock is twitching in anticipation. “When that barista was hitting on you,” he kisses the inside of my hip. “And I took you outside…” he licks the side of my cock— _finally_.

The day he's talking about is frequent masturbation fodder for me, even now. He was so turned on by watching this random guy hit on me that he took me out to our car and had me coming down his throat a minute later—in broad daylight. We went back into the coffee shop and finished our morning like nothing had happened.

“I would have done that _this_ morning if I'd known you'd be this into it,” he teases. “I fucking love getting you off.”

I grab the back of his head without meaning to. I want him to suck me so bad. “Please… please,” I whimper.

“Only if you tell me,” he sucks the head into his mouth for a second, “...what you _want_.”

I shudder as he pushes me flat on my back and starts to suck in earnest. I thrust my hips up in time as I think.

“Alistair,” I moan, “I want to fuck you.”

He rotates so we can make shaky eye contact while he works.

“How?” he asks. His mouth is full and it sounds funny, but it turns me on even more.

“Like this,” I manage to grab his arm and pull him toward the head of the bed. I push him gently onto his back and kneel between his bent knees. “Where I can see exactly how much you love it.”

He groans and kisses me.

“I don't have anything with me,” he looks around the room nervously.

 _I_ do, of course. _I'm_ the one who has sex with random strangers. Unlike Alistair, who probably just has sex with his gorgeous _wife_. Talk of contraceptives makes me wonder—are they having _kids_? I wish I didn't let that thought occur to me. It churns in my stomach, but I manage to suppress it as I reach for the condoms.

It feels strange to use a prophylactic with him—the man I used to live with. But we're _smart_ and we're _adults_ , so I roll it on.

“How ready are you?” I ask.

“Emotionally? _Very_ …” he smirks. “...but I might need some help physically.”

It's okay, I love opening him up.

I probe a latex-clad finger toward him experimentally. He closes his eyes and pushes against my digit.

“That's it, Love,” I coach. “You're perfect.”

He opens his eyes half way when I manage to get in up to the knuckle. I'm not sure if it's because of what I'm doing or what I just called him. He’s not _my love_ anymore—he's not mine _at all_.

“Oh god, Anders,” he groans, “I want you inside me so bad.”

“Patience…” I run my other palm along the outside of his thigh as I add another finger.

He rolls his hips up toward me and moans. It's a sinful sound that I still hear in my dreams.

 _God, he's perfect_.

A minute later, I'm convinced that he's ready. The fact that he's incoherently _begging_ for it helps too. I settle my dick against him and start to push. It's hard at first—he struggles—but soon I'm sinking into him, the skin of his ass slapping against my hips.

“Oh god, Anders,” he cries, “you're fucking incredible.”

The compliments help—I’m pushing into him with such force and speed that I’m not sure how long this is going to last. I need a diversion. I lean down to kiss him, trapping his dick against my stomach in the process. He groans.

“I want you to come, Love,” I say. The pet name feels as wrong this time as if did the first, but I'm too close to really acknowledge it.

“I'm going to… just touch me a little,” he kisses me and bites the bottom lip.

I lift up onto a forearm and reach for his dick between us. I can tell from his face that he's almost there.

“I want to feel you come inside me,” he says suddenly. His lips graze the skin of my chest. The request almost breaks my concentration. It's something he considers intimate—I _remember_ how much that kind of thing means to him. The fact that this thin latex barrier is between us reminds me how far we are from the intimacy we used to have—the intimacy I sort of took for granted.

I don’t know how to respond, so I just kiss him—it’s sloppy and rough.

“Oh god, Andy,” he whines. It sounds _painful_ —and it's simultaneously the sexiest thing I've heard in a year.

“C’mon, Love,” I wrap my hand around his dick and start to pump. “This is going to feel amazing.”

His eyes snap open for a second. He flashes me the strangest smile. “ _Kiss_ me,” he says. It's not really a command. It's more like a dying request—as if this if the last time I'll ever see him like this, which it probably _is_. The thought hurts in some deep guttural way that almost throws me. I have to blink and breathe just to stay hard.

I lean down and kiss him—desperately. At the same time, I feel him come all over my hand. It's warm and doesn't freak me out like other guys I've jacked off lately. It feels _right_ —like part of me as opposed to some foreign _poison_.

He shudders, suddenly too sensitive to be touched. “Oh god, Andy… you're so good…” he babbles. It's barely words, but it's endearing. “Please come—for me…”

I'm not sure what that _means,_ exactly. I've been one full stroke away from coming for the last half an hour, but now that it's _allowed_ , I can't seem to remember _how_ —not with visions of what this is going to feel like afterward dancing around my head. 

“I _want_ to,” I assure him.

He looks at me quizzically. There is sweat beading across his brow and the come on his abdomen is probably dripping onto the sheets by now, but he looks _hungry_ for me. “Let me help you,” he says.

I nod.

He pulls me against his chest and wraps his arms around me, grabbing at the skin of my back and ass. Our stomachs are flush against each other, and I don't even care that there is come all over me now too. It’s so _familiar_.

“You are the most beautiful person I have _ever_ had sex with,” he breathes into my ear.

I _want_ to believe him, but I’ve _seen_ his wife. I pant and whine, my lips sucking clumsily on his shoulder.

“When I touch myself, I picture you just like this… _Powerful_ ,” he growls.

I shiver—this is absolutely working. I'm a sucker for a dirty compliment.

“Alistair,” I bite his ear. “I'm going to—”

“Fuck yes—do it,” he sucks on a bit of my neck and grabs my sides.

“Oh god…” I yell, as I finally let go. I swear to god, I see colors I don't have names for.

 

...And then, everything goes silent.

“Sweetheart,” Alistair whispers.

He's gently rubbing the skin of my back as I soften out of him. I know I should get up and deal with this condom situation before it leaks, but I'm paralyzed.

“Want to take a shower?” he asks, kissing the side of my head.

I finally manage to pick my head up to nod.

In the shower, we don't speak more than two words consecutively. It's all kissing and biting and licking each other. I can't remember the last time I kissed someone like this.

When we're done, I wrap a towel around my waist and hand him one.

“Thanks,” he says, looking into the mirror. He's not looking at himself, though, which is shocking because _holy shit_ he looks good. He's looking at me.

“Do you mind if I stay?” he asks.

 It's mad, but I actually feel like _that's_ the most inappropriate thing he's said all night. Something in my chest seems to snap. I wonder if this is the precursor to a heart attack.

“I _want_ you to,” I answer, “...but I think this might feel much worse in the morning.”

He looks down at the floor and purses his lips. He still hasn't even _attempted_ to cover himself. My eyes keep drifting over him.

_God, Anders. Knock it off._

“Yeah, you're probably right. I'll go,” he turns to leave the bathroom.

“Hey… Al?” I chase him out of the bathroom and grab his hand. “I—” I almost lose my nerve, “—I don’t regret this at all.”

He smiles, “Me neither.”

He dresses and leaves in almost complete silence. When he’s at the threshold, I pull him back for one more kiss. It’s greedy, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

“Good night,” he whispers against my lips.

I bolt the door behind him and finally allow myself to _freak out_.

 

 **Anders** : I fucked him.

 **Fenris** : what?

 **Isabela** : good for you, Love.

 **Merrill** : isn’t he married???

 **Anders** : I’m assuming yes…

 **Merrill** : what do you mean ‘ _assuming_ ’?

 **Anders** : well, he didn’t say anything about it.

 **Hawke** : what _did_ he say to you?

 **Anders** : ...nothing I can repeat in good conscience.

 **Isabela** : nice.

 **Fenris** : …

 **Merrill** : well, you can’t go on like this, Andy… you know that, don’t you?

 **Anders** : can’t I?

 **Hawke** : C’mon, bud… seriously?

 **Anders** : you’re right. I have to tell him we can’t do that again…

 

* * *

 

I flop onto the bed and bury my face in a pillow. The whole thing smells like sex in the best way imaginable, but it’s going to make sleeping really hard. My dick is already nudging the mattress.

I growl and flip over onto my back. I grab my phone and go to plug it in when I get a text.

 **Alistair** : I can’t stop thinking about you.

 _We’ve been here before_.

I try to decide what to say, if anything. I want to say, ‘please come back and let me fuck you all night,’ but I don’t. Instead, I pretend to be asleep already and say nothing. It’s a hard choice, but the right one.

 **Alistair** : You must already be asleep… you are so cute after you come. ;)

_So are you._

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is kind of a terrible cliffhanger... I've decided not to make you wait very long for the next multi-day challenge. I've been feeling really creative lately and it's mostly done... so I'm planning to start it on April 1st... that's only 2 weeks away! :) 
> 
> Until then, it would make my day if you'd leave me a note, find me on twitter or tumblr (@ponticle), or send this story to a friend. 
> 
> You're all the best! <3


	5. Part 5 - Coming Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the seminar week that began so confusingly, Anders and Alistair get some clarity. (Four days after Chapter 4, The next morning from 'Seminar' challenge)
> 
> I cannot stress enough how much you should read the challenge that comes immediately before this: [Seminar](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10518585). It will make this chapter _way_ more satisfying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: lots and lots of swearing. All the cuss words I know. ;)
> 
> I know I said I was going to post this "later in the week" but it was done and the end of the challenge was such a cliffhanger, I just couldn't leave it. :)
> 
> Happy Reading!

* * *

**Four days later**

* * *

 

It’s been a hell of a week. We have gone through so many phases, I can’t even begin to describe them, but the major takeaway is that we’ve managed to spend an _enormous_ amount of time together. We attended classes, we ate lunches and dinners, and, even though I _knew_ it was a bad idea, we had a terrifying number—and variety—of sexual encounters. It’s confusing, but _wonderful_. It was a week so romantic, it could be a movie.

Last night, though, I think I fucked everything up. I _may_ have accidentally whispered that I love him. He was pretty drunk, and my lips were sort of squished at the time… but I'm sure he knew something was off. I acted like a crazy person and ran away to my room afterward.

 _Whoops_.

I just want to see him again— _sober_ —and smooth everything out. Of course, I’m not sure _why_. Is it better to leave on good terms when I know it’s likely I won’t see him again? Another voice in my head just suggested that maybe I _will_ see him again. Am I planning an affair?

 _God damn it, Anders_.

 

* * *

 

This morning—the last morning of the seminar—there was just one session from 9am to 12pm. I attended, “Psychosocial factors in headache presentation.” Afterward, most people will get together with old friends and have lunch before they disperse. Based on the rest of this week, Alistair and I will probably do _something_. I’m feeling conflicted about it, though. I’m half elated—I can’t wait to see him—but the other half is dreading it; this is going to be _goodbye_.

I emerge from the conference center and head into to the lobby. I’m looking for Alistair the whole way there. I expect to see him in line at the lobby Starbucks or bent over his laptop, but I don’t. He’s _nowhere_. Dread starts to creep through my chest. He gave his lecture yesterday afternoon; we said our goodbyes last night—such as they were. I didn’t give him a _reason_ to stick around; what if he _left_?

Eventually, I find someone I know.

“Hey Dorian,” I smile nervously.

“Hi,” says Dorian. He looks effortlessly put together, just like always. “How are you, Anders?”

“I’m doing okay…” I’m looking over his shoulder the whole time for signs of Alistair.

He catches me and raises an eyebrow, “If you’re looking for Alistair, you should probably try his _room_.”

I swallow hard.

“Thanks…” I pause. “Honestly, I didn’t know I was so obvious.”

He rolls his eyes.

I smile and start to leave.

“Anders?” he calls.

I turn back to look at him over my shoulder.

“Do say goodbye to him for me— _when_ you see him?”

“Will do,” I smile and nod, but it’s a strange thing for him to say. I’m pretty sure they’re on the same flight back to New York.

 

* * *

 

I stalk down the hallway toward Alistair’s room. It’s at the end of a long hallway. I knock nervously. My whole fist is shaking.

“Hey,” he says. He lets me in, but I have a bad feeling as soon as I get inside. He looks absolutely exhausted.

“Hi…” I mumble.

His suitcases are all packed. The room looks torn apart. We made love here all weekend, but there’s _nothing_ left of us—just used condom wrappers in the wastebin and evidence of debauchery in the sheets. I feel sorry for the cleaning staff, but not as sorry as I feel for _myself_. He’s about to wipe away my very existence. I can _tell_.

“Are you leaving?” I ask. I’m trying not to let my voice sound panicked, but I can’t tell if it’s working.

“Yeah… just about,” he looks around the room sadly. “I have a few hours before my flight, though…”

I perk up.

“Do you want to check out that Sushi restaurant I mentioned?” he asks. “We never made it there the other night…” he blushes.

I get a chill just thinking about what we were doing _instead_ of eating sushi.

“Yeah… that would be great,” I smile.

He nods and smiles gently as he calls the bellhop to hold his bags until we get back. When he’s done, he inspects the room one more time, looking for forgotten items.

“It’s only a few blocks—let’s walk,” he suggests.

 

* * *

 

Outside, on the sidewalk, he holds out his hand to me.

I take it. It’s insane to think that we’re walking the streets like this when we weren’t even _speaking_ five days ago.

“So Anders,” he isn’t looking at me. “...I want to ask you something—but I’m a little concerned that it might ruin everything. Should I wait until after lunch?”

“I think you better ask me now…” I feel my brow furrowing.

I stop short. Our arms stretch and he falls back toward me, colliding with my chest.

“Does this _mean_ anything to you?” he asks. He looks pale.

 _It means everything_.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

He raises an eyebrow and lets out a tiny strangled breath, “I think we’re getting into something dangerous here.”

_Obviously._

There are about a thousand things I _should_ be saying, but my mouth won’t work.

“I…” he stumbles over the words, “I can’t stop thinking about you—I really have _never_ stopped thinking about you since we broke up… but I _know_ you don’t want to get back together.”

“—Who said _that_?” I interrupt.

He squints. “Well… _you_. You’ve told me we’re _ruined_ a dozen times.”

_I guess I have said that._

“God, Alistair—”

“I know… I’m really sorry—I don’t want to put too much pressure on you…” he backs up.

Now I’m really confused. _What exactly is he proposing_?

“I mean… it’s a big step,” he mumbles.

_What is? Having an affair? Getting divorced? I’ll say._

“...it would take _work_ ; I know that…” he continues nonsensically, “...but isn’t this worth it?”

He looks up at me like I’m a lifeline. I have no _idea_ what it means.

“To be honest, Al,” I look down at the cement between us, “I’m surprised you’re even _talking_ about this.” The words feel like they’re choking me, but I have to finish. “I thought you’d be back with your _wife_ at the end of the week…”

“ _What_?” he asks incredulously.

_Oh god. What is happening?_

His mouth drops open, “My wife?” His eyes widen to an alarming degree. “You thought I was married this _whole_ time?!”

I shrug.

He grabs the side of his face like he’s about to lose consciousness or throw up. “I’m not _married_ ,” he says.

“Oh my— Oh my god…” I stutter uselessly.

“So let me get this straight…” The tone of his voice has suddenly become dark. He’s enunciating each word like it’s a weapon. “You thought I would do what we did this week—what we’re doing _now_ —if I was _married_?”

“Oh my god,” I lunge toward him, arms wrapping around his chest, but he shakes me off.

“Fuck… you didn’t know I called off the wedding?! _How_?!” he yells. “We know tons of people in common… that’s news that fucking _travels…_ even people I _don’t know_ look at me like I’m a monster.” He’s not even talking to me anymore—I’m watching him dissociate into some kind of self-loathing nightmare.

“I—” I’m not sure what else to say, “I _didn’t_ know. I thought you got married… I thought we were just—”

“Just _what_?” He looks absolutely horrified. “Just _fucking_ for the week? Just for _fun_? Dear god, Anders… This was _not_ fun; this was heartbreaking. I only barely _survived_ this.”

I want to agree—we were having the exact same experience—but I’m thrown off. I can’t find the words.

“My _god_ , Anders,” he shouts, “why didn’t you just _ask_ me?!”

That’s the question, isn’t it? _Why_ didn’t I ask?

“I was too scared…” I sputter. “I just thought you _were_ … and I didn’t want to hear you say it.”

“So, what? You would rather think I was lying to you?!” he yells. “You wanted plausible deniability?”

“No… of course not… I just—”

Suddenly, his face falls, “You _still_ don’t trust me. We really _are_ ruined.”

I try to argue—to explain that I _do_ trust him… that I _want_ to, anyway… but he’s already walking away from me.

“I can’t believe I’ve spent all this time….” he cuts himself off mid-sentence. “—dreaming about you. Hoping you’re all right… _loving_ you…”

“Oh my god, Al…” I reach for him again, but he steps away from me.

“Please, Andy… just let me go… I’ve got to know this is _over_ once and for all if I have any _chance_ of being happy in the future… so _tell_ me…” he sputters.

“Al, I can’t do that!” I shout.

He grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls—hard. “Andy, you’re _tormenting_ me!”

It’s crazy to hear him say that. _I’m_ the one who feels tormented.

“This whole week, do you know how _terrified_ I was?” he asks. His tone is so incredulous, I’m torn between kissing and punching him. “I _almost_ worked up the courage to tell you I loved you a hundred times… and then… when you sputtered it at me last night—on the sidewalk…”

_So he did hear me._

“For a _split_ second, I thought everything was going to be okay,” he explains. He’s emphatic, “but then you pretended you didn’t say anything and you went back to your room… so I figured it was just the adversity of the situation getting to us… or the alcohol… or _something_ …”

I shake my head, but he won’t let me interrupt him.

“I _literally_ didn’t sleep a minute last night,” he says. “I couldn’t stop running over all the words again and again in my mind—trying to figure out how the _hell_ I was going to fix this…”

We’ve effectively started to walk down the street—he’s three steps out of my grasp, walking backwards. People on the sidewalk are crossing the street to avoid us. It’s becoming a scene.

“And then I finally resolved to just _leave_ ,” he says. “I figured you didn’t want to see me anymore—not after this week—and I needed to go home.”

I shake my head in horror. I think my mouth might be _hanging_ open at this point. I can’t _tell_ , though, because my entire face feels numb.

“Andy, I need to get the _fuck_ out of here…” he looks down at the sidewalk and I think he might be _crying_. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him cry. He turns on his heel without looking at me and walks off in the direction of our hotel.

I chase after him for a few steps, but experience has taught me that he doesn’t respond well to that. I have never won _any_ arguments by chasing him.

 

* * *

 

When he’s out of sight, I feel like my chest is about to rip open and I’m on the edge of tears, so I grab my phone and call Hawke.

“Garrett, I fucked everything up so bad,” I sputter.

“What?” Hawke takes a deep breath—it sounds like he’s at the Hanged Man from the background noise. “Slow down, Buddy… what happened?”

“I intimated that Alistair shouldn’t keep screwing me if he’s still married and he got really fucking offended—apparently he’s _not_ married,” I ramble.

“He’s not married?!” interrupts Hawke excitedly.

“Apparently not…”

We pause for a beat.

“But he thinks I don’t trust him… which, I guess… is _true_ ,” I conclude. “He’s incredibly offended and… and _hurt_ , I think. Hawke… I think I _really_ hurt him—oh my god…”

I run my fingers through my hair and close my eyes. _I hurt him—_ I was so afraid of being hurt myself that I never even considered he might be _dying_ inside too.

“Andy?” Hawke’s voice is soft and calming, “I need you to take some deep breaths…”

I purse my lips and _try_ , but it feels impossible. Eventually, I eek out two or three deep ones.

“That’s better,” says Hawke. “So… let’s regroup: what are you going to do right now?” asks Hawke.

“I don’t know…” I breathe.

“That’s okay, Andy—give yourself a second,” coaches Hawke.

While I’m trying to think of what to say, it occurs to me that this is ‘ _old Anders_ ’ talking. _This_ is the Anders who dropped out of school. _This_ is the Anders without confidence. _This_ is the Anders who let life _happen to_ him. That’s not who I am anymore. **I’m _new_ Anders**.

“Buddy, I need to call you back,” I say, suddenly calm.

“Okay… go get him…” he laughs encouragingly.

 

* * *

 

I take off down the street. I’m running harder and faster than I have in ages. Luckily, I still take my workouts seriously—I’m a _really_ fast runner.

“Alistair!” I shout.

He turns, presumably to tell me off, but something about the way I look stops him dead in his tracks. Maybe he can tell that I’m _committed_. Maybe he can see that I’m someone _new_.

“Stop!” I shout.

He scowls at me, “Why?!”

“Because I _fucking_ love you!” I yell.

We stare at each other. The moment stretches.

Tears roll down his cheeks, but he doesn’t move to wipe them away. “I love you too.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next challenge is literally my favorite one of the whole series, I think. It's the one where we _finally_ get answers to all the questions. Chapters are from Anders' POV with memories/stories that are sometimes from Alistair's POV--filling in all the holes. It takes place over consecutive hours. They have 12 hours to figure this out once and for all.
> 
> I'd love to hear from you about this chapter. Leave a comment or find me on twitter or tumblr @ponticle.


	6. Part 6 - Making Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair misses his flight back to NYC, opting to come home with Anders. Everything's a little different than they expected, but there are still decisions to be made.
> 
> I also wanted to call this chapter "All that Shit Intellectuals Aren't Supposed to Want" (you'll see why)... but it was kind of long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should absolutely go read [12 Hours to Solve This](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10764114) before you read this chapter. It's incredibly sappy and adorable and I don't know _why_ I keep writing nice things. I've lost my gritty edge.
> 
> \---------
> 
> A HUGE thank you to [EarlGreyer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Earlgreyer/pseuds/Earlgreyer), who loaned me her version of Carver and Felix. They're an _adorable couple in her world. You should absolutely check out her stuff after you finish this. :)_

* * *

From the moment Alistair and I say we love each other, everything changes. I spend the next 12 hours telling him how I feel while he explains all the time we were apart. He misses his flight home, electing to come back with me, in an effort to give us more time. I’m not sure it will be enough.

 

* * *

 

Just after what feels like 6am, we touch down in Boston. Of course, it’s actually just after 9am and my day is starting unbelievably soon. We collect our bags in the airport and wait outside for Hawke to pick us up.

“I need to make a quick call,” says Alistair.

I smile at him and nod. He takes a few steps away. I can hear him explaining that there was some kind of _mix-up_ with his flights and he’s been rerouted through Boston. I try not to laugh too loudly. He eventually says, “Well, I’ll be back in New York in the next couple days. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Were they falling apart without you?” I ask, when he comes back.

He laughs, “I think so—they’re trying to stay strong… but I know how _vital_ I am.”

I hit him gently.

“So… how are we going to play this when we see Hawke?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs, “I think we need to treat this carefully… I just want to make sure we don’t have any pushback—I know your friends don’t really like me…”

“What?” I feel my eyes narrow as I turn to face him. “They like you—they tried to tell me not to break up with you. They have been on your side this whole time.”

He looks skeptical. “Hawke was _not_ pleased to hear from me after we broke up…”

“What did he say?” I ask.

“He said that I’m bad for you—I made you feel inferior,” Alistair admits. There’s contrition in his eyes.

“Maybe that was true then…” I say seriously. “But it isn’t now. I love you… and I feel like we’re on equal footing.”

He smirks, “I don’t know… you haven’t actually _graduated_ yet…”

I jab him in the ribs with my elbow.

“How’s everyone else?” he asks. “Did Isabela and Fenris get married?”

I nod. “It was so beautiful… you would have loved it.”

“What about Merrill and Hawke?” he asks, “what are they doing?”

“Well… don’t tell anyone… but they’re trying for a baby…” I explain.

 

* * *

 

When the car pulls up, I’m surprised to see that Hawke isn’t the one driving. It’s Isabela.

“Get in,” she shouts.

Alistair and I look at each other, but neither of us says anything.

“We have to _go_ ,” says Isabela. She locks the doors and peels out before we’re even buckled. I’m sitting next to her in the front. Alistair is right behind me, so I can’t see his face, but he winds a hand around the seat to touch my shoulder.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

She sighs, “Carver’s in trouble…”

“What?”

Alistair looks as perplexed as I feel.

“Felix just called—there's been an accident,” she says quietly.

Alistair leans between the front seats to look at me. “Who is Felix?”

I almost laugh. He has missed so much. “That's Carver’s boyfriend. He's amazing.”

“What happened?” Alistair asks.

“Carver was at a construction site, overseeing the progress of an addition, and an ice dam slid off of a roof and clipped him. It cut straight through a section of his arm,” explains Isabela.

“Oh my god,” I gasp.

Isabela continues haughtily, “I hope Felix sues the shit out of them…”

“I don’t think he’s that kind of lawyer…” I mumble. It’s not helpful at this juncture, but I can’t think of what else to say.

“How bad is the damage?” asks Alistair from the backseat.

Isabela shrugs.

All of our other plans are on hold, it seems. Alistair and I have so many things to talk about, but our first priority is to get to the hospital.

“Which hospital is he at?” I ask.

“Beth Israel,” answers Isabela.

My heart sinks. Alistair _just_ got done telling me that Icis practices there. I catch his expression in the rear-view mirror. He blinks like it’s painful. But we don’t have a choice—Carver’s like my own little brother: we _have_ to get there. Besides, she is a radiologist—why would she be involved in this?

 

* * *

 

Before we know it, we’re in the emergency department talking to a very disgruntled admin.

“Listen,” says Isabela, who can’t control her temper, “our best friend’s little brother is in there. We _need_ to see him.”

“Are you _family?”_ repeats the grouchy woman.

Isabela makes some huffy sounds, but eventually lands on _‘no_.’

“Then you can’t come in,” she shuts the window so quickly, I have to get my fingers out of the way.

That’s when Alistair does something selfless. He knocks on the window gently and leans in.

“I’m sorry to bother you—do you know if Dr. Lavellan is working today?” he asks.

I feel like I just swallowed something sharp.

The woman checks a schedule in the computer, “She’s on level 4.”

“Thanks,” smiles Alistair. He turns on his heel and heads for the elevator.

I grab his wrist to pull him back, “What are you doing?” I’m trying not to sound like a panicked, jealous, insane, person, but I don’t think it’s working.

He shrugs at me, “She can get us in…”

“You do _not_ have to do this,” I assure him.

“I know.”

_God, I’ve never loved him this much._

Without another word, he turns back toward the elevator, but I follow him. “I’m coming with you.”

“I don’t think that will help,” he smirks. “But you _can_ …”

 

* * *

 

The environment on the fourth floor is significantly calmer than the ER. Radiological services consists of radiology and interventional radiology (surgical interventions that employ real-time radiography and special imaging). Icis is a member of the latter team. It’s a hell of a specialty—it combines all the complexity of radiology with the precision of surgery. I’m terrified of her.

Alistair approaches a much nicer-looking administrative assistant who points us down the hall to the third office on the left. The door is open ajar and it’s very dark inside. This is normal in a radiology suite—it’s easier to see subtle contrast with low lighting. Nevertheless, I’m trembling.

“Come in,” says Icis. She doesn’t look up from her screen for a minute. When she does, her expression goes blank.

“Hi,” says Alistair. I’m standing in his shadow like a coward. I don’t know _why_ I thought it was a good idea to come up here.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“Our friend,” he coughs and steps to his left.

I’m not quick enough (or smart enough) to move with him, so she sees me. Her eyes narrow.

“Wow, Alistair…” she clicks her tongue and folds her arms across her chest.

“I know,” he takes a tentative step forward and sits in the chair across the desk from her. At first, I can’t figure out why, but I realize he’s trying to look smaller—less threatening. I wish I’d thought of that. Instead, I stand awkwardly in the threshold.

“Our friend is downstairs in the ER and they won’t let us in…” he explains.

“So?” she snaps.

He cocks his head to the side admonishingly, “Come on, Icis—just get us in.”

“Why should I?” she asks.

“Because this has nothing to do with _me_ … Anders’ pseudo-brother is down there…” he gestures to me.

I wish he hadn’t done that. Once her eyes settle on me, I feel like lasers are going to shoot out of them. And why shouldn’t they? I was instrumental in ruining everything.

“And…” he says, “Because I’m really sorry.”

_Oh god. He’s going to get into this now?_

She scoffs.

“I know it doesn’t help—but I am,” he reiterates.

She sighs and drops her head into her hands. It’s like she’s collapsing into the desk. I’m not sure what it means. For a painfully long moment, Alistair and I stare at her, afraid to look away.

Then she straightens, “Not as sorry as I would have been if we’d gone through with it, I guess.”

Alistair nods sadly.

I don’t do anything, though. I can’t _imagine_ being that mature. She’s a _hell_ of a person.

 

We follow her through the back hallways of the hospital and down a set of abandoned-looking stairs. She doesn’t speak to us along the way, except to say that we shouldn’t tell anyone she let us in. At the stairwell door, she stops.

“Just turn right on the other side of the door and you’re _in_ the department. Don’t let the front office staff see you—they’re vicious.” She nods and holds the door open for us.

And that’s it—we’re back on our own again.

“Oh my god, I thought she was going to _murder_ me,” I breathe into Alistair’s shirt. I realize I grabbed him and pulled him against me without even meaning to. Terror has a strange effect on me.

He laughs into my hair. “She’s really one of the _best_ people I know…”

I back up a little so I can look at him and nod.

“Not as great as _you_ , though,” he smiles. “Come on, let’s go find Carver.”

 

* * *

 

Without being seen, I sneak to the front and motion for Isabela to follow me. She slides in and follows Alistair and me into Carver’s room.

“Carver?” I whisper. He’s probably heavily sedated. Hawke and Merrill are on the left side of his bed.

“How is he?” Alistair asks Hawke.

Hawke looks up at Alistair and then at the space between us—which is extremely small; I feel like we’re glued together.

“He’s okay…” says Hawke. “The sheet of ice partially severed his brachial artery. If the paramedics had been even _one_ minute longer, he could have died. He’s going to be asleep for a while…”

“Oh my god,” I whisper involuntarily.

Suddenly, Felix enters the room like a whirlwind.

“Hi, Felix.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

He shrugs and looks around the room. Before he answers, he squints over my shoulder.

“ _Alistair_?” he says.

Alistair turns, “Felix? What are you… oh my god… you’re _Carver’s_ Felix?” he asks.

Now I’m _really_ confused. “What’s going on?”

Alistair laughs, “Felix is Dorian’s best friend from back home… he was the best man at his wedding—much to my chagrin.” He winks at Felix.

“What a small world,” I mumble.

“Yeah…” Felix runs a hand through his hair and returns to Carver’s side. He brushes his knuckles against Carver’s stubble and sighs. “He’s been like this for hours.”

We all nod to him.

“It’s all right, Sweetheart…” he whispers, “I’m here…”

In the process of realizing that Alistair and Felix know each other, no one has asked Alistair what he’s doing here, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. We’ve already established that we love each other—that we’re going to make this _work_ somehow—but I’m afraid anyway.

We all fall into a rhythm of sitting and standing and laughing to avoid falling apart. Eventually, Felix gets curious.

“So how’s Dorian doing?” he asks. “We have been playing phone tag for a month.”

“He’s about to murder Cullen,” laughs Alistair. He looks at me and we smirk. I love having inside jokes with him.

Felix looks confused.

“Cullen called like every three minutes this week while we were at a seminar,” I explain.

Felix laughs quietly.

“So how do _you_ know each other?” he asks.

Hawke pipes up from the other side of the bed, “They’ve been dancing around dating for like half a decade…”

I blush.

“Yeah… well, I think we’ve finally worked it out…” says Alistair. He grabs my hand and tugs it so I collide with his chest.

Everyone in the room sighs collectively. Including me… I can’t believe this is real.

 

* * *

 

A couple hours later, we’re walking toward the cafeteria to find some coffee side by side.

“Hey, Al…” I clear my throat, “Have you known Felix for a long time?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “He came to visit Dorian during our first term of med school… so like almost 15 years?”

“Do you _like_ him?” I ask.

He smiles hesitantly, “Of course. Do _you_?”

“Yeah… I do… I just—,” I lean in so I can whisper. “He’s going to ask Carver to marry him… _was_ —before this I guess.”

“Really?” He smiles broadly. “How do you know that?”

“He told Hawke and then Hawke told everyone because he’s terrible with secrets.”

Alistair laughs. “How long have they been dating?”

“Not that long… That’s why I’m a little nervous…” I admit.

He nods. “It’s weird… he was really down on the whole marriage thing at Dorian and Cullen’s wedding.”

I squint.

“He just seemed kind of… jaded?” adds Alistair.

We find ourselves sitting across a round table from each other in the hospital’s coffee shop. The whole thing smells antiseptic—not like coffee should smell—but I’m okay with it. It’s so familiar to be in this scenario with him.

“How did Dorian feel about that?” I ask. “I’m guessing a _skeptical_ best man wasn’t exactly what he wanted…”

Alistair laughs, “You don’t know Dorian… he _loves_ skeptical.”

I shrug. “I guess I don’t…”

We swallow our shitty coffee in comfortable silence.

“Do you think I _will_ , though?” I ask.

“Will what?”

“Will get to know Dorian better?”

“Oh,” Alistair smiles. “Yes… you definitely will.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

 **Felix** : He’s awake. Come back.

 **Anders** : on our way.

“Carver just woke up.”

Alistair picks up his coffee and drapes his coat over his arm. He’s ready to go back and see Carver even faster than I am.

 

Upstairs, I put my hand on the edge of Carver’s bed. The metal is cold in my hand, but reassuring—this is the kind of situation where I’m at my best these days. My professors have often told me I have a knack for decatastrophizing patients.

“Hey Buddy.”

He blinks at me, “Hi…”

Felix is on his other side, running his palm over the smooth part of Carver’s hair. It’s sort of wiry—kind of like Alistair's, actually.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

Carver shrugs, which I think he regrets instantly. His arm probably _really_ hurts.

“Well, I brought you an orthopedist.” I smirk and gesture to Alistair with my eyes.

“I think I’ve seen enough doctors for one day. Can you back up?” grouches Carver. He’s smiling, though.

“Thanks for being here, guys,” says Felix. He and Carver are so good together because they balance each other out. It’s my favorite sort of partnership.

Carver nods, but he’s mostly looking at Felix.

“Well, I think we should let you get some rest,” I say finally. Looking down at my watch, I realize it’s almost 4pm. That is really unfortunate because it means I missed my entire day of classes. I never even called anyone—I make a mental note to take care of that on the way home.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, we’re stepping into my apartment.

“Wow, it feels so weird being back here,” says Alistair.

We used to live here—it feels like a lifetime ago.

“Do you still like the view?” I ask, pulling him toward the window.

He wraps his arms around my waist. “Of course…” but he's not looking outside, he's looking at _me_.

He threads his fingers through my hair and grips the side of my head. It's a gesture so masculine I swoon a little.

“I love you,” he whispers.

I am about to tell him I love him too when he forces our mouths together. His lips crash into mine and his tongue thrusts into my mouth.

“Upstairs?” I whimper between kisses.

We tumble and careen and collide with every wall on our way up to the loft, clothing stripped off piece by piece.

When we get to the bed, I push him backward. He falls across the bed sideways and _laughs_ ; I'm not sure why.

“What?” I ask, settling myself over him.

“I used to _live_ here,” he covers his face with his hands, “ _we_ used to live here!”

I kiss his neck and bite his ear.

“I mean, we used to fuck in _this_ bed every night,” he says.

That strikes a chord with me, though. “Well… not _every_ night…”

He frowns.

“I'm really sorry,” I whisper into his ear. “If I had known what I know now it _would_ have been every night… and every _morning_ too.”

He rubs his hands up and down my sides, finally hooking his fingers on the edge of my underwear and sliding them down.

“I want you so much,” he whispers. “Every fucking day from now on…”

“Oh god, yes,” I growl.

His hand finds me—grips my cock hard enough that it’s a little shocking.

I groan and grind into his palm.

“You are so fucking _needy_ right now,” he laughs. “It feels like you're going to come apart in my hand.

 _I might,_ if I'm not careful. I roll off of him and pull him until we're face to face. He's still tugging me, but gently.

“I love you,” I whisper.

He lets his lips glide past mine—it's _like_ a kiss, but softer.

“Well?” I smirk, “do you love _me_?”

He laughs and tackles me until I'm flat on my back.

“I'll _show_ you how much I love you…” he threatens. “Just tell me where your condoms are…” he makes a face, “I know—what a mood killer.”

We both laugh.

“In that drawer,” I point to the bedside table.

It's a bit of an awkward moment, because this is _our_ bedroom, for all intents and purposes, but we never had to keep condoms here. It's a sobering reminder of how far we are from settled.

He doesn't seem to let it bother him, though. While he gets everything sorted, I squeeze some lube into my palm and coat my first two fingers. He shivers. He's back in a second, crinkling the wrapper in his palm.

“Come here.”

He kneels in front of me, resting gently on his elbows. I circle his hole a few times, coating it gently, until he's starting to sweat, and then I curl into him.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

I laugh, “I thought you’d be used to this by now…”

“I am never used to you.” He looks back at me over his shoulder and smiles. “I seem to like you more all the time.” He gasps as I find that spot that makes him squirm. “Dear god… can you just fuck me?”

“So hasty…” I mumble, but it’s hollow. I’m feeling desperate too.

He smiles and pushes the condom toward me across the comforter.

I lean down over his back and kiss a sensitive patch of skin between his shoulderblades. “I love you…”

He turns his head so he can see me peripherally. “I love you too— _seriously_. It’s not just the desperation talking…”

We laugh and sigh while I roll the condom on. He only stops laughing when I push inside of him.

“God… you'd think I would adjust to that eventually…” he groans.

“Give yourself some time—it hasn't even been a week yet…” I grab onto his hips and pull him hard.

He gasps and bites down on the skin of his forearm. I've seen him do that a hundred times before but I've never asked him about it.

“What is that?” I ask. I'm leaning close to his ear.

“What?” He looks bewildered.

“That thing you do…” I gesture to the mark on his arm with my eyes.

“Oh,” he blushes bright red, “it's _nothing_.”

His reaction tells me it's very much _something_.

I'm still gently thrusting into him, but I'm really distracted by this and he's not panting very hard anymore either. This discussion has taken center stage.

“It's just… sometimes…” he clears his throat. He won't look at me. “It hurts… and this other pain helps.”

“I'm _hurting_ you?” I ask.

His eyes snap up, “Not in a bad way… it's just—you're a _lot_ …”

 _Oh._ My lips are very near the skin between his shoulder and neck, and an idea occurs to me. I snap my hips forward bruisingly. At the same time, I bare my teeth and bite down.

He makes a pained whine against the pillow.

It feels like encouragement, so I do it again. This time I suck the skin between my lips for a second after I've bitten it.

He groans. I watch his eyelids flutter.

“Al,” I whisper into his ear. “You're so fucking sexy right now… but I'm kind of scared I'm going to hurt you.”

He shakes his head, “you won't.”

I understand that he trusts me—it's _nice_ … but I don't even trust myself right now. The way he's reacting to this is the sexist thing I've ever seen in my life.

“If I want you to stop, I'll tell you,” he says. “Otherwise…” he turns his head so that he can nuzzle against my cheek.

“Fine… I love you…” I say. I'm wary, but I'm desperate for him too.

He nods and grinds himself back toward me, edging me on.

The next few minutes pass in a blur. I find myself biting the skin where his rib cage meets his waist. I'm fairly sure several of these are going to be black and blue tomorrow. And, alarmingly, I think I'm going to _like_ that. I hope _he_ does.

“Al,” I slow my hips again and he groans like I'm the most annoying person in the world.

“ _Al_ ,” I repeat.

“Yes?”

“I think you're going to be bruised,” I explain. “Just… fair warning or whatever.”

He shivers and pushes his ass back against me.

He would never say this because it's way too stereotypical-porn-dialogue for his taste, but in my mind, I imagine he says, ‘ _fuck yes, Andy; bruise me_.’

In reality, he just groans and braces himself on his elbows in front of me.

“Touch yourself,” I insist.

I lean to the extreme edge of his hip so I can see him stroke his cock. He's going really fast—it's clumsy and stuttering. He must be close already.

I want to meet him, so I pick up the pace.

“Al, I'm gonna come,” I warn.

“Me too,” he breathes.

 

I hate that I'm wearing a condom because it makes this entire ending part even _less_ sexy than it usually is, but I manage to get it sorted in record time and come back to bed.

He’s lying on his stomach, exactly where I left him. I gently lie next to him and kiss his cheek.

“I'm sorry about the bruises,” I mumble.

“Don't be,” he smiles. “I'm going to get a hardon every time I look at them.”

I _want_ to enjoy that. It's a _super_ sexy thing to say. But that voice in the back of my mind won't let me.

“When you're back in New York, you mean?” I ask.

He rolls away from me and grabs his shirt to wipe the ejaculate off his stomach. It's _not_ cute, but it doesn't faze me.

“I _have_ to go back,” he says, finally.

“I know…”

We sigh.

“...and what does that mean? _For us_?” I ask. For the first time (ever?) I don't stumble over these words. It doesn't feel like they're choking me.

“I think we'll have to be long distance for a while…” he answers. “That's assuming you want that… but… that's what _I_ want.”

“I mean… I want you here,” I blurt. “But I'm really busy with school… I mean, I would hardly ever see you anyway…”

He nods.

“Come over here,” I stretch out my arms so he'll hug me.

I expect him to topple me over or something, but he doesn't. It's the gentlest hug he's ever given me. His hand rests on the back of my neck and he breathes into my ear. It occurs to me that he's _crying_.

“Hey,” I squish him harder, “it's okay…”

“I'm such a baby…” he laughs morosely. “I just can't fucking stand the idea of being away from you again…”

“Me neither,” I admit.

“I'm going to give my notice the minute I get back…” he says. “I'll finish out the quarter—eleven weeks—and then…”

“And _then_?”

“And then I'll come back here… to _you_ ,” he finishes. “And we'll live here—together.”

“And?”

He smiles. He's starting to look excited even though his eyes are wet. “And then maybe we'll open a practice together…”

“Yeah?” I kiss his cheek.

“Yeah… and maybe we'll have a big wedding… and two kids…” he continues, “and all that shit intellectuals aren't supposed to want.”

I laugh, “Okay, Alistair. Let's do it. _All_ of it.” 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I know I originally said this whole work would be 6 chapters, but I had more things to say... so it's actually going to be 7. Stay tuned in June for another challenge. This one is called "11 Weeks" and has one chapter for each of the weeks Alistair and Anders are apart.
> 
> While you're waiting, I have lots of other ongoing projects. Subscribe to my profile and dig in! :) 
> 
> LOVE YOU GUYS!!


	7. Joint Venture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end! To all my readers, new and old, thank you SOOOO much for making this project great. After 150k+ words, it's a little bittersweet to say goodbye to this universe, but I'm so glad to be moving on to new projects. 
> 
> See the end notes for upcoming work. :)

* * *

**Six Years Later**

I whip around the corner and almost knock over a medical assistant. Things are moving quickly here today. As I reach the reception desk, I overhear one of our admins talking to a potential patient.

“Yes?” she pauses. “ _Which_ Dr. Theirin were you referred to?”

I grin at her and shrug. This confusion was inevitable, I guess.

“I think you want Dr. Anders,” she concludes. “He has time in his schedule next Tuesday?”

We smile at each other.

“Okay, fantastic—let me get your information…”

While she meticulously schedules my new patient, I catch a glimpse of reddish-gray hair. He’s my destination, anyway. I take off in his direction and meet him in his office.

“Hey,” I grab onto the door frame and swing over the threshold. “I need to talk to you about the staff’s vacation schedule.”

He smiles when he sees me. “Come in,” he gestures toward the sofa in the corner of his office with his eyes. “Shut the door.”

I raise an eyebrow at him, but I do it anyway.

As soon as the lock clicks, his face changes. He sits next to me on the couch and cups my face in his hands. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I laugh. He’s being awfully _dramatic_ for a weekday. “What’s going on?”

His eyes widen. “Oh my god—you forgot.”

_Oh dear._

I take a quick mental inventory of the dates today _isn’t_ : It isn’t our anniversary. It isn’t the anniversary of our clinic opening. It isn’t his birthday. Is it _my_ birthday? _No…_

“You got me… I have no idea what today is…” I look at him contritely.

“We’re watching Mia overnight for Dorian and Cullen!” He rolls his eyes, “it’s _their_ anniversary!”

“Thank god… I thought I forgot something _important_ ,” I tease.

He elbows me playfully, “You’re the worst.”

“Anyway…” he pushes me with his shoulder, “I was thinking that we could go out somewhere—like to a fun restaurant with kid friendly stuff…”

I nod. I know why he’s this excited. He thinks of it as parenting training wheels. We’ve thrown around the idea of kids a lot, but we’ve been so busy setting up our clinic that we haven’t gone any further than that. He’s considers any overnight visit with Mia the first step toward kids of our own.

“If we have kids are you going to be less excited about me?” I ask. I’m teasing, but there’s a tinge of truth in there too—a question about whether or not he’s _capable_ of loving me and children in equal measure.

“Dear god, no,” he grabs my hand and squeezes it against my lap. “It’s not possible. You’re the best person I know.”

I laugh and kiss him just as there’s a knock on the door.

We split apart, “Come in,” I call.

It’s our office manager. “Dr. Anders, your patient is here.”

“Thanks,” I nod to her and she leaves. “That’s my cue, Love.” I kiss Alistair one more time and hop up, sliding back into my professional character. “Love you,” I whisper.

 

* * *

 

Our lives are really good now. We have the clinic—it’s been open since I finished my residency three years ago—we have a townhouse in the Back Bay area; and we have each other, which is the most important thing.

I get through the rest of the day without much trouble. I love my patients. The coolest thing about our clinic is that we’ve combined doctoring and rehab. I still get to do lots of the things I loved about being a trainer, but with a much better knowledge of physiology. It’s my dream job and I have it in real life.

At about 6pm, we close the office. I wave goodbye to our staff and I’m left standing in the waiting room. Alistair and I put this place together piece by piece. When we opened, we agreed we didn’t want to be part of a big medical conglomerate—we wanted to be a patient-centered place where we valued interactions over dollars. It was really hard at first. Without backing from a huge hospital, we struggled to find our first patients. But here we are, three years later and busy enough that we can employ a small staff. I even have a medical intern now. Life is amazing.

 **Alistair** : are you almost done?

He left a couple hours ago. Our shifts overlap in the middle, but he works mornings and I work afternoons, for the most part. It’s weird, but I _miss_ him when he goes home—every damn day.

 **Anders** : just about… I’m looking at our building… I could weep.

 **Alistair** : is something _wrong_?

I laugh aloud in our darkened office.

 **Anders** : lol, no. I just love it here.

 **Alistair** : lol...come home! This kid is crazy.

           

* * *

 

I ride the subway three stops and elect to get out and walk the rest of the way. There are a few ways I can do it, but I like to do this particular thing because I pass Isabela’s shop. She has a new location on Newbury St. now—it’s all very trendy.

When I get to her store, she’s just changing the sign over to ‘closed.’

“Hey!” she calls, opening the door. The bell overhead dings pleasantly. “Come in for a sec.”

I hop inside and she locks the deadbolt behind me. She waddles over to an antique couch on one side. “Andraste—this baby is going to kill me.”

She’s eight months along. We are taking bets on what day she’ll actually be in labor. My friend from med school is her obstetrician and she’s agreed to let me scrub in. It isn’t what I do, but Isabela insisted.

“Can I watch you drink a glass of wine?” she asks. She pulls a mostly-full bottle out from behind the counter.

“If you insist,” I shrug.

“I can’t wait to drink _all the things_ ,” she sighs and rubs her stomach.

We’ve been having an ongoing fight about breastfeeding. I keep telling her how important it is for immunity, etc. She keeps saying she doesn’t care—she needs coffee and booze. Either way, I’m pretty sure her baby is going to be _fine_. If it takes after her and Fenris _at all_ it’s going to have an iron constitution.

“So what are you up to tonight?” she asks. She’s watching me swallow my pinot noir with an unnerving level of scrutiny.

“I’m supposed to be home helping Alistair watch Mia.”

“So why _aren’t_ you?” she asks.

“Because _someone_ needed to watch me drink,” I laugh.

In reality, I _do_ have an avoidant feeling. Alistair may be baby-crazy, but _I’m_ not. I just feel like our lives are so _good_ —I don’t want anything to change.

“Oh, I see,” she smirks, “you're avoiding the kid thing…”

I start to argue, but she raises a hand to me and I stop. If I know one thing about isabela, it's not to Argue with her—especially now that she's pregnant.

“I had that feeling too—but Fen straightened me out,” she says. “Now we're going to do this great thing together,” she rubs her belly.

I shrug. I'm happy for her, but I can't seem to muster the same feelings.

“At the same time, Andy…” she cautions, “if you don't feel like the parenting kind, you should probably tell him…”

I nod.

“I mean… you've been married for like 4 years? It might be time to be honest with him…”

She's joking, but there's a nugget of truth in there somewhere too.

“Thanks, Bel—I better get going.” I finish the glass of wine and head for the door.

“Let me know how it goes,” she calls.

“I will.”

 

* * *

 

When I open the door to our townhouse, I'm instantly assaulted with hugs. First Mia, then Alistair.

“Hi, uncle Andy!” yells Mia. She's 7 and boisterous.

“Hi!” I kiss Alistair gently and then kneel down so I'm eye to eye with Mia. “What have you been up to today?”

“Alistair let me run all over the house and we hid in the closets!” she announces.

“So did you come out eventually?” I smirk at Alistair, “...of the closet?” It's a stupid joke, but we both laugh.

“We were just trying to decide what to eat for dinner,” says Alistair. He's, ostensibly, talking to me, but he's looking at Mia.

“Cake?” she suggests. “...and ice cream?”

“Yeah, I think your parents would love that…” I mumble.

In the years since we got married, I have gotten a lot closer to Dorian. Cullen is still a little standoffish to me, but he trusts me with his kid, apparently, so that’s something.

“How about we go out somewhere fun and we can negotiate about cake,” says Alistair.

I don’t know why he’s placating her. It’s a terrible habit.

Just as we finally gather ourselves enough to get out the door, he gets a page.

“Oh no… don’t tell me,” I roll my eyes at him.

He shrugs, “that new stenosis patient is having an emergency… I’ve gotta go.” He bites his bottom lip and looks at me with liquid eyes.

“Oh god, don’t do that…” I groan.

“What?” asks Mia.

I laugh, “Uncle Alistair uses his looks to get away with things all the time…”

Alistair pouts.

“See?” I laugh, “he’s still doing it.”

“I’ll be back in three hours—tops,” he grabs his coat and keys.

I don’t believe him, but I nod and kiss him at the threshold anyway.

When Mia and I are alone, it occurs to me that I have no idea what to do with a little girl—even one I know as well as I know her. I know who _does_ , though. I pick up the phone to call Hawke.

“Hi?” he answers. The background noise is confusing. In times past, it would have been the hanged man, but today it’s his house. Although the only thing Hawke is committed to is the bachelor lifestyle, he lives in the Hawke family home with Carver and Felix (and their kids) now. They got started on children almost as quickly as Dorian and Cullen did—only they were more _proliferative_. Their children are Cara, George, and Phillip—ages 6, 4, and 2.

“Hey, Buddy,” I smile into the phone. “Can I bring Mia over to your house?”

“When?” he asks.

“Uh… right now?”

He laughs, “I guess so… what’s one more of these _things_?”

I hear Carver admonishing him in the background, but it’s all very good-natured between them. They’re much closer now than they once were. Felix is a fantastic influence on Carver—always has been.

“We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

I hang up.

“So Mia… we’re going to go over to Hawke’s house…” I explain.

She looks at me, perplexed.

I correct myself, “To _Cara’s_ house?”

“Yay!” she shrieks. They have semi-regular play dates, even though they’re a year apart, because they both attend the same ridiculously expensive Montessori school.

“Okay, put your coat on and let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

At the door, Felix ushers us in. “Hello!”

We say hi and I lose sight of Mia almost instantly. She flies down a hallway after the other children and Hawke and I are left in the living room together.

“Want a beer?” he asks.

“As long as you’re going to drink one too…” I say warily.

He squints at me.

“Isabela asked me to drink a glass of wine _in front of_ her today,” I laugh.

He snorts, “She’s getting desperate.”

We nod and he hands me a frosted glass.

“So how are you doing?” he asks, once we’re comfortably reclining.

I nod, “Pretty well… the clinic is busy… we just hired a new PT.”

“That’s good.”

We smile at each other, sipping our drinks and sighing. There’s something else he wants to say and I know what it is. I’m dreading it.

“So… I almost hate to ask… but have you told Alistair about that _other thing_?” He leans forward so that I don’t have to say it too loudly.

I shake my head, “No… not yet.”

He makes a face, “Buddy.... What are you _thinking_? He’s going to lose his shit.”

“No he isn’t…” I argue. “Give him a little credit…”

“This is a big deal, Andy…” Hawke shakes his head. “He deserves to know.”

“I know he does…” I rub a hand across my forehead and sigh. “...but I don’t feel ready to tell him… what if he wants to sell the clinic and come with me?”

Hawke raises an eyebrow. “Shouldn't that be his choice?”

I shrug. “Well, tonight isn't the night… we have Mia.”

Hawke frowns, “You _always_ think of an excuse.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, I realize Hawke was right. I'm gearing up to tell him over my morning americano (which I drink as a triple now) when I jam my finger in a drawer. I swear and pull it to my mouth.

_Well, this certainly isn't the day…_

I almost laugh aloud at myself. I'm being absurd. He _needs_ to know.

I climb the stairs and open the door to our bedroom quietly. He is supposed to be up, but he hates daylight savings time and he's obstinately demanding his stolen hour back, so he's still in bed.

“Love?” I whisper in his ear. “Sweetie… it's time to get up.”

He rolls toward me and blinks. “No… come back here.”

Quicker than I can stop him, he grabs me and pushes me flat onto my back. I'm shirtless, but the fabric of my sweatpants makes him frown.

“Take those stupid pants off,” he mumbles into my hair.

“Make me,” I tease.

He grabs onto the side of my neck and tips my face up. It's a little rough, but I like it. We've been together long enough that we know where the line is. He never crosses it.

“Make love to me, Andy…” he whispers between kisses.

I thrust my tongue inside his mouth and struggle to get out of my pants until our cocks slide gently together against my abdomen. He's already hard. I fucking love him.

_But I need to tell him._

“Al,” I put my hands on his chest and push so he'll back off of me a little.

He looks down at me gently. He probably thinks I'm going to demand a blow job or something. I'm bossy like that.

“I need to talk to you,” I say.

He smiles and leans down to lick one of my nipples. “Can it wait?” he breathes.

I groan. I almost don't tell him to stop, but my moral compass is more attuned than it used to be.

“It can't,” I roll him off of me until we're lying on our sides face to face.

“Okay.” He looks concerned.

“I've been offered a huge research grant,” I explain.

His face cracks into a smile, “To do what?”

“To study infectious disc pathologies…” I explain. Even though I'm delivering bad news, I'm _psyched_ about this topic. I smile, despite myself. “— _specifically_ what happens to spinal integrity after the resolution of a poorly managed acute infection—osteomyelitis or whatever.”

“That sounds really interesting,” he says.

“It is…” I wrap a hand around the back of his neck and twirl a few hairs at his nape absently.

“...but?”

“But I can't study that here… we don't have a big enough pool of mismanaged patients,” I swallow the words, but he's putting the pieces together. I knew it would only take him a second.

“They want you to _leave_ —go to a third-world country or something…” he finishes the sentence for me.

I nod. “To Africa…”

“And?”

“...and I want to go…” I say.

“For how long?” he asks. He's keeping his face neutral successfully, but I can tell it's taking a lot of resolve to do it.

“Three years,” I breathe.

He blinks.  “...and you already told them yes, didn't you?”

“No…” I argue.

For a split second he looks incredibly relieved.

“At least… not in so many words…” I add.

His face falls.

“But I'd have to be an idiot to give up a chance like this,” I say suddenly. My words come out louder than I mean for them to.

“Yeah… I guess you would…” he looks disgusted as he sits up and throws his feet over the edge of the bed. “There's nothing _on earth_ that should keep you from an opportunity like this, I guess.”

“Al… that's not what I meant…” I crawl toward him so I can wrap my arms around him from behind. “I love you.”

He turns his head toward me slowly. “Why exactly are you telling me this?”

I stumble over some sounds that are _not_ words.

“Are you asking me to come with you or are you saying goodbye?” 

He's really gotten to the crux of this. I'm not even sure.

“Love…” I try to turn him around—to pull him back into my arms—but he resists. “I don't know.”

“That's what I thought.” He stands, leaving me shivering and cold.

I stand up to follow him. “Al… you’ve already gotten to _do_ your research—you got to do that for _years_ before I even had a license…”

“So this is a tit-for-tat situation?” he snaps.

“No… of course not…” I argue. “I’m just saying… this is something I’m really passionate about…” I manage to put my hands around his waist. He hasn’t tried to get dressed yet, but it’s the limpest I’ve seen his dick—probably ever. He’s _pissed_.

“So what are you planning to do about the clinic?” he asks. “You have patients who depend on you.”

I shrug. “I thought _you_ could handle them…”

“Oh,” he raises an eyebrow, “so you _do_ have a plan,” he scoffs. “More like an ulterior motive…”

He grabs some pants and throws them on. I think they’re mine—they are kind of tight on his ass, which I _try_ not to notice as he walks away from me.

“It’s nothing in stone,” I argue. “It’s just an idea I had…”

He stalks down to the kitchen and slams the cabinets while he makes coffee. He hasn’t put a shirt on, which I think is a calculated gesture to make me falter. I’m not giving in.

“Anyway… you don’t get to be _angry_ —this is huge for me,” I say.

He stops moving and speaks through a clenched jaw. “Don’t tell me what to feel.”

He’s right, of course. I’m being insensitive, but I’m too far in to stop now.

“I just thought you’d be _happy_ for me—at least a _little_ ,” I yell. “I didn’t realize marrying you meant you owned me.”

“ _Really_ , Anders?” he shakes his head and walks back to our room—presumably, to get dressed. The coffee sits half-made on the counter.

“Alistair,” I call up the stairs. “Can you please come back here? …we need to talk about this.”

He appears a minute later, wearing scrubs and carrying his sneakers. “No, Anders—I have patients to see… you know, those people we claimed we were _here_ for?”

“You’re being such a child,” I growl.

“What’s more childish?” he yells, opening the door. “Trying to keep some semblance of normalcy in the clinic we built together or running away to fucking Africa?”

“I’m not running away!” I shout.

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow. His hand is digging into the doorframe—his fingertips are blanched. “This has _nothing_ to do with the fact that I want to have kids?”

In truth, I hadn’t even considered that, but now that he’s bringing it up, it _does_ seem suspicious. I stay quiet long enough that he takes it as an admission.

“I knew it, Anders…” he scoffs. “You could have just said _no_.”

He slams the door behind him and leaves.

 

* * *

 

We haven’t had a fight like this in a long time—years. Of course, I can’t blame him. I’m essentially _telling_ him I’m leaving. I pretended he had a choice, but the more I think about it, the more I _realize_ —I’ve already made up my mind.

My phone rings. “Hey, Garrett.”

“Hey… are you okay?” He’s freaked out because I used his first name.

“Not really—meet me at the Hanged Man?” I ask.

“It’s 9am…”

“Oh… how about a coffee shop somewhere?” I ask, checking my watch. “The Thinking Cup on Newbury…?”

He agrees and we hang up.

 

* * *

 

We find a small booth in the corner.

“I’m guessing you told him?” asks Hawke.

“Yeah…”

“And he didn't react well?”

I sigh, “That's an understatement… he just…” I pause, trying to think of how to explain it. “He saw right through me—he knew I was going to accept it before I even got the words out.”

“ _I_ didn’t even know you were going to accept it,” mumbles Hawke. I think he feels a little bad—like I’m abandoning him. I’ve managed to alienate two people I love in one day.

“I’m not sure that I am… but now I kind of want to just to spite him…” I sigh and stare into my coffee cup. I’m already highly caffeinated, but this feels good.

“Well, do you want to know what I think?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah, of course…”

“I think you should have asked him to go with you,” he says.

“Really?”

His eyes widen, “Yeah… he’s your husband… it is the _least_ you could have done. He probably feels incredibly rejected right now… like, you don’t even care about him enough to give him a choice.”

The longer Hawke keeps talking, the more terrible I feel.

“And Andy…” Hawke continues, “He probably would have come to the same conclusion eventually—that he has to stay here to handle the clinic while you go… but you didn’t give him a chance.”

“You’re right…” I mumble.

He smiles. “Are you going to take the train or would you like a ride to the clinic?”

“Would you drive me?” I ask.

“Yeah, of course…” He grabs his keys off the table and stands. “Andy?”

I pause to look at him.

“We’re really going to miss you when you’re away…” he mumbles. “ _I_ am really going to miss you…”

I throw my arms around his neck with enough force that he has to struggle for balance.

“I’m gonna miss you too…”

 

* * *

 

At the clinic, our receptionist looks at me strangely. Her name is Hannah; she’s fantastic at her job—mostly because she’s perceptive.

“What are _you_ doing here today, Dr. Anders?” she asks.

I blush, “Just checking up on Al… is he in his office?”

She nods. “He has a patient in 15 minutes, though.”

“Okay, I won’t make him late,” I promise.

His door is closed when I get there. I knock tentatively.

“Come in,” he says.

I open the door, but he doesn’t look up at me right away. He shuffles his papers around and squints down at them. Eventually, when I don’t say anything, he looks up and puts on his glasses.

“What do you want?” he asks.

I cock my head to the side in an act of contrition. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t look particularly moved. “For what?”

“For _everything_ ,” I sit in the chair across the desk from him. “I love you and I was horrible.”

He shrugs.

“...and you were right—I _had_ already decided this morning,” I swallow hard. “...but as soon as I thought about it—about what you said—I changed my mind.”

He bites his bottom lip.

“I won’t go,” I say. “I’ll call them today and thank them for the opportunity… and suggest some other colleagues who might be a good fit.”

He shakes his head like he’s going to argue, but I don’t let him interrupt me.

“I love you and I care about you more than anything,” I reiterate. “I love being with you and I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future… but I’m willing to _talk_ about it. I know you want to have kids,” I continue. I’m barely breathing—I just have to get this out. “...and I don’t know what I want, but you deserve to have that conversation.”

I get up and round the table so I’m kneeling in front of him.

“...and this clinic that we built—it’s perfect… and I don’t want to leave it,” I continue. “It’s something we _made_ together…”

He looks stunned when I finally stop talking.

“I love you, Andy…” he mumbles softly.

I put my hands on his thighs and lean up until I can look directly into his eyes. I want him to kiss me—I’m doing a thing with my chin that is supposed to make that clear—but he doesn’t move.

“You’re going…” he says quietly.

“What?”

He almost smiles, “You think I’d actually let you turn down a gig like that?”

My face feels hot.

“What kind of a partner would I be if I made you choose me over that?” he asks, incredulously. “Seriously, Andy… you just scared me this morning, but I want you to be accomplished and successful and—most of all— _happy_.”

He pulls me by my arms until I can perch on one of his thighs. It’s _like_ sitting on his lap, but I’m way too big and heavy to do that—it’s the closest we can get.

“And I’ll stay here to take care of things,” he adds. “...until you get back.”

I kiss him slowly at first. It feels like probing into unknown territory because, although I always knew he was a wonderful person, I never knew he was _this_ good. At the thought of separating in the airport terminal, something in my chest snaps—a string that ties us together.

“Al?” I pull back suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“Come with me,” I say.

“What?” he looks skeptical.

“Come _with_ me,” I kiss him again—harder. “We’ll find someone to take over the clinic while we’re gone—we can ask Dorian and Cullen for recommendations. We’ll train them before we leave. We’ll make sure they have our paradigm—that they care about people like we do…”

I’m talking so fast he can’t interrupt, but his face starts to change—his eyes are glassy.

“And then we’ll _go_ —we’ll do it _all_ together: you and me, Al… _you and me_.” I pause, “...and then we’ll come back and pick up right where we left off.

He bites his bottom lip and a silent tear falls down his cheek.

“Or we _won’t_ —and we’ll do something entirely new… either way…we’ll do it _together_.”

 

 _So here we are_ … heading to Logan Airport’s International Terminal—hand in hand. We don’t know what we’ll find when we get there—we don’t know _how_ this will change us—but we’re doing it together. Because that’s what you do when you’re in love.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again! You're the best.
> 
> Upcoming works include a Zevran x Alistair piece in the canon setting (post-DAI), an Anders x Alistair Western AU, and an Anders x Alistair Roaring 20s AU (which also features F!Amell x Morrigan).
> 
> Keep in touch! Subscribe to my pseud and find me on tumblr or twitter @ponticle. :)


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